T and I have a pretty sweet track record when it comes to our annual Writing Retreats. During Year One, she finished her first novel while I successfully discovered the wonders of drinking beer-and-coke at all hours of the day; during Year Two, we co-authored and completed our kick-ass YA novel (and in just two weeks, WHAT UP!) and ate a record-breaking number of corn dogs (not really, I haven’t really checked…though, I wonder if there even really is a record for most corn dogs eaten…that sounds like a goal we should add to our joint bucket-list); during Year Three, we finished a grueling and ultimately rewarding round of edits for said novel and managed to survive a bunch of near-maulings by the neighborhood dogs, none of whom were at all happy to smell our imposing city girl scent; and this past year, Year Four, we…well, we carefully researched and compiled a (growing) list of agents and submitted the shit out of our book.
It was a very scientific process of T and I flipping through the pages of Agent Query, adding names to our super official, shared Excel document on Google Docs (which, by the way, is such a piece of shit program – but T will get to this an edition of All the Rage Wednesday…stay tuned!), and making dramatic, hesitant noises all throughout drafting an e-mail, copy and pasting the required materials, and even more wailing before finally hitting the “send” button.
It was legit, guys.
Anyway, one afternoon, T and I were sitting across from each other at our designated writing table as usual. I was probably doing something real important, like bobbing my head way unrhythmically to Volbeat’s “Better Believer,” and she was no doubt multitasking between watching episodes of Orange is the New Black and adding to our intimidating Excel file, when out of nowhere I looked up to find her failing her arms frantically in the air like a drowning passenger of the just-sunk Titanic.
“Wah! Eeee! Ahhh! Buh, buh, buh, hah, hahaha!” was all that came out of her mouth for a good minute-and-a-half.
I briefly considered the possibility that she was having some kind of stroke, but was somehow enjoying it because she was also grinning maniacally and laughing to herself. Appalled, I did what any reasonable human being would do and just watched her.
“Uh…dude? What’s going on?”
“We! We got a response! Someone wants to see the full manuscript!”
Suddenly the calm one, T proceeded to clear her throat and read the e-mail aloud, pausing and raising her voice for extra emphasis when she got to the best part.
“I FEEL LIKE WE SHOULD HUG!” I was already out of my chair because FUCK EVERYTHING.
And with that, we promptly met halfway between her seat and mine (because that’s true love right there), threw our arms around each other haphazardly (because I am a hobbit and T has to lean over considerably to reach me), and started rocking each other sideways and hopping around from foot to foot, which somehow got us moving in a very Rain Dance type of circle, as we guffawed in celebration into each other’s ears.
It was the most lady bromantic two-minute dance I’ve ever had.
And then of course we broke away from each other and got back into our seats and I didn’t start speaking in a lower voice as a way of over-compensating at all.
For more of our best moments, check out: Ain’t No Bromance Like a Lady Bromance