PromSeeking literary representation is not unlike finding a date for prom.  You don’t want to go with just anyone because you have a reputation you are trying to maintain and a public you’ve worked hard to impress.  Well, who the heck are you trying to kid?  You’ve been standing against the same wall, in the same dress, waiting for someone to ask you to dance for what feels like an eternity, but still, you just can’t bring yourself to dance with anyone who’s had the nerve to ask.

The first guy – he’s slimy.  He saw you, looking anxious, rubbing at the palms of your hands, wishing that the prom king had begged you to join him in his limo.  He watches the beads of sweat gather at your temple as the other unfortunates press their pleated taffeta hard against the cinder block wall.  But you very indignantly and righteously brush that slimy guy off.  It’s still early.  You still have a chance.

And here comes the ‘friend’, the guy that knows, in his heart of hearts, that you’re truly a shining star. He approaches you with a half smile – the smile that says ‘We’re not meant for each other’ but isn’t this better than nothing at all?  You actually consider it for a moment but reluctantly look away retching at the thought that this might have been your only chance to ever dance at all.

You continue to wait.  He’s out there.  You just know he is – the person that can dance, knows the DJ, and has VIP standing at a very exclusive after party.  You’re positive that your John Hughes, ‘Breakfast Club’ moment is just around the corner and in true ‘Pretty Woman’ style, your representational Romeo is about to ride in, poking his head out of the moon-roof of a gleaming white, freshly washed, luxurious stretch limo, declaring his undying devotion to your awesomeness, ready to sweep you away and declare you the ultimate bell of the ball.

I’ve seen the movie.   It could happen, and why not to me?

Or maybe, just maybe, in this day and age of self help, social media and print-on-demand you should rethink the notion of needing a ‘partner’ to dance.  Should we allow the cold sting of that lonely concrete to truly chap our hides?  Why not whip off the taffeta, throw off our heels and dance to the beat of our own drummer?

But this is the moment.  The music is coming to an end.  The party is almost over…

Will you wait for your Romeo or make your way on to the dance floor and take one final spin through the room on your own?