Still 12 after all these years

For all the buildup I enforced on myself, it didn't last nearly long enough. An email to my inbox indicated a new literary gent. I was sure I had just what she was looking for. My hands literally shook with the promise of contact. How long would I have to wait for a response? A week? Two? Maybe it didn't arrive in her box at all.

I needn't have worried. One hour. One hour for a cursory thank you for considering her and wishing me luck elsewhere. It was a little like being stood up. I had sent only a query. What can you tell from a query? And my query matched what the interview I was forwarded said she was looking for. If you're not looking for that, why put it in an interview? Did she have some magic insight into my writing and illustrating abilities?

And then it got personal; she doesn't like red hair. I'm too fat, too thin, too tall. Silly? Of course; but you do remember junior high, right. And where our work is concerned, aren't we really all still 12?