ARCHIVE FOR Linda Wertheimer
The first time I went to a writing conference, I was a neophyte. I wore my heart on my sleeve and told nearly anyone who would listen how I was writing a memoir about losing my brother and wanted to get it published.
I probably had that look my dog Bernie gets when he wants a piece of the salmon I’m eating for dinner. Please, please. Please, please be my agent or please give me a book contract.