Kristan Hoffman - Writing Dreams Into Reality
Wed Apr 23 2014

Florence (aka hillsides, mosquito bites, and the second agent)

After receiving my first offer of representation (!!!) I promptly notified the other agents who had my materials. With some, I withdrew my manuscript from consideration. With others, I requested that they finish reading and make a decision within 10 days (which included 2 full weekends). That meant the rest of my vacation would be a waiting game, as most of the querying process is, but now without that pit-of-your-stomach dread or exhausting self-doubt.

In Florence, we stayed at a homey B&B just around the corner from the Duomo. Five rooms branched off a main lobby, like a warren of rabbit holes. The husband-and-wife owners were tall and generous. They gave us keys, coupons, and a complimentary bottle of prosecco.

First we did the Duomo’s bell tower — 400 steps up a narrow curving stairwell, not intended for two-way traffic, and then 400 steps back down. Then we did Ponte Vecchio — a gold mall on a bridge, the stores full of jewelry too gaudy and expensive for our taste. And last but not least, we did the Galileo Museum — an elegantly designed tribute to centuries’ worth of Italian inventions and innovations.

Our second day trip promised the “Best of Tuscany,” and it didn’t disappoint. We lost ourselves (literally and figuratively) in the quiet, dusty labyrinth of Siena. We enjoyed the world’s best gelato at Dondoli in San Gimignano. And we ate a simple but exquisite lunch at an organic farm, overlooking endless green hillsides and vineyards.

It was all so tranquil and enchanting that I could almost forget about the agent stuff.


Before bed each night, I was glued to my iPad, eagerly working my inbox. (Thankfully Italy seems to be even more obsessed with free wifi than America.) I may not have been able to update my spreadsheet, but I mentally logged each agent’s response. And now that I wasn’t neurotically over-analyzing every word of every message, it seemed fairly obvious who was actually interested and who was just playing the game.

A second agent, also fabulous, soon tossed her hat into the ring. Unfortunately we couldn’t schedule a good day to talk until after I returned to the States — but that just gave me more time to look forward to the call.

Poor Andy had to put up with my constant questions and speculations. What if this? What about that? He was very gracious and remarkably helpful, but after a certain point, he would switch off the light on his side of the room and gently remind me that we needed to rest up for our next big day of adventuring.

I would say the mosquitoes were karma, except that they bit Andy too. All night we suffered buzzing in our ears, snapping us out of slumber, warning us of big red bumps to come. It wasn’t until morning that we realized the skylight was letting in more than sun and moon beams. Thankfully this Houston girl is a champion mosquito-hunter.

Neither the itching nor our aching feet could stop us from appreciating the rest of our time there. More gelato, more churches, some shopping, the Uffizi. Though small, the city was a treasure trove.

Maybe the most unique experience of our trip was truffle hunting in a hill-town just outside Florence. All morning we skirted the edge of a forest with Ricardo and his two dogs, Nebbia (fog) and Luna (moon). Nebbia was amazing, a constant rocket of energy, sniffing and circling and digging until she came up with a precious woodland nugget. Luna, on the other hand, was useless — but cute. She would dig excitedly in Nebbia’s wake, then peer up at Ricardo in hopes of a cookie.

Endearingly dumb, she reminded me of Riley, my beloved “grumble pup,” who I couldn’t wait to reunite with. It’s not that I wanted the trip to be over — I didn’t. But there were good things waiting for me at home.

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Mon Apr 21 2014

Rome (aka jet lag, historic ruins, and The Call)

First stop: Rome. We landed fairly early in the morning and hit the ground running, pausing only briefly at our hotel to stow our bags and freshen up. Then it was off to Vatican City for a stroll through the museum and a tour of the archaeological excavations under the Basilica. (Our guide “spoke English” in the sense that we could understand maybe half of what she said, and she could answer “Yes, OK” to any questions, regardless of whether or not that answer actually made sense.)

For lunch we enjoyed the first of many (many, MANY) excellent pasta dishes, freshly made, with finely grated parmesan and savory-sweet artichokes sprinkled throughout.

We knew jet lag would be our enemy, so we purposely planned to retire early and relax at the hotel. What we couldn’t have anticipated was that I wouldn’t have slept a wink on the plane. Me! She Who Cannot Stay Awake in Moving Vehicles. She Who Often “Rests Her Eyes” During Takeoff and Then Does Not Open Them Again Until Landing. I am a champion sleeper, and yet for no good reason that I can discern, I was completely thwarted from slumber during our entire flight over the Atlantic.

So, at about 4 p.m. on that first day in Rome, I was crashing. Hard. I wanted nothing more than to collapse on the bed and go unconscious till morning. But Andy insisted that I push myself, just until 6 p.m. Otherwise I might not adjust to the new time zone properly, which would throw me off for the entire trip.

Reluctantly, I listened to his wisdom. I forced myself to shower, eat, remain upright. To pass the time, I checked Twitter and read articles that my friends had shared. I Instagrammed.

By 6:17 p.m., I had brushed my teeth, put on my pajamas, and was ready, at long last, to sleep. But out of habit, I checked my email one last time — after all, people in the States were finally up and about — and I received one of the simplest but most exciting messages of my life.

It was from a literary agent I had queried. She had finished reading my manuscript and enjoyed it. She wondered if I might have time to talk.

Suddenly I was wide awake.

Fortunately, our schedule for the following day had some flexibility, so I set up a time to speak with the agent and then proceeded to freak. the hell. out. Now Andy switched sides, insisting that I try to sleep, lest I become even more of a zombie. In spite of being out of my mind with (cautious) optimism, I did (finally) zonk out, almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next day I woke with a smile on my face and a pegasus flying circles around my heart. That buzz kept me company as we explored the Colosseum and wandered through the ancient crumbling Forums. I may have been reading about the past, but I was dreaming about my future.

Lunch was beef carpaccio and more hand-cut pasta, this time with impossibly thin slices of black truffle on top. Bellies full, we went to the Pantheon and to Trevi Fountain. Together, we turned our backs to the statue of Neptune and threw coins over our shoulders into the water. One, two three, splash! That was the sound of wishes being made.

Back at the hotel, Andy stepped out to give me privacy for my call. For The Call. The one where an agent told me that she loved my book, that she understood my book, that she wanted to represent my book. That she wanted to represent me.

We talked for over an hour, and I couldn’t stop smiling. When we got off the phone, my whole body was vibrating with excitement. Euphoria. Disbelief and validation simultaneously.

I had an offer.

Although this agent was wonderful, I did not accept right away. I wanted to honor the time and interest of the other agents who were reading my work — and if I’m being honest, I was curious to see who else, if anyone, might offer, and how they would compare. But more on that later. For now, it’s enough to say that I was on cloud nine, and I stayed there for the rest of the trip.

Day 3 was an excursion to the Amalfi Coast and the ruins of Pompeii. We spent hours enjoying the view as a driver wound us along the breathtaking mountain roads. Sea and sky, cliffs and lemon fields. The panoramas imparted a peace I can’t explain. I fell in love with Positano.

In Pompeii, our guide explained how remarkably advanced this ancient civilization had been — with roads, a court system, bakeries and bars, even indoor plumbing — as well as how such a grand city could go missing for so long. Twenty feet of ash, thousands of lives lost, and still years to go before the whole thing was unearthed. Huddling under umbrellas to avoid the rain, we marveled at what remained of their world.

Our last day in Rome was the most free-form. Decisions made on the fly. A quick trip through the wrong museum, followed by a quick trip through the right one. Gnocchi and maialina just off the Piazza Navona, and a long, warm climb up to Gianicolo Park for spectacular views of the city.

As we walked and ate and admired the art, every now and then it would hit me: She loves my book. She wants to work with me. When I get back home, the next phase of my journey will begin.

But first, we still had Florence and Venice to go.

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Sun Apr 13 2014

Italy by the numbers

10 days
4 cities
12 additional towns
6 train rides
7 cups of gelato
800,000,000 calories in meals
11 major monuments and museums
3,000 churches
9,000 public squares
3 hour drive along the coast
40 minute gondola ride
700 photos
5 souvenirs
2 light sunburns
19 mosquito bites
1 life-changing phone call

I can’t wait to tell you guys more.

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Wed Mar 26 2014

Unexpected encounters with grief


We’re standing in the front atrium of our high school, forty or so girls in rows of ten. We’re all in matching warm-up clothes, and there’s a boom box up front, blaring hip-hop music. We’re rehearsing for our halftime dance number.

Suddenly our coach comes hurrying down the hall. She pulls the team captain aside and speaks quietly into the girl’s ear. The girl crumples. Without a word of explanation, she walks away, supported by the arms of our coach. Practice pauses while the other team leaders figure out what to do.

Later we learn that the captain’s father has been in poor health for a long time. She’s only a few months away from graduation, but they don’t think he’ll make it. Eighteen years old and facing life without her dad.


September 11th starts as television broadcasts from a faraway city. Then it becomes rumors whispered in the hallway between classes. Buildings falling, dust clouds flooding the streets, a plane crashing into a field.

I’m in third period calculus when a front office aide interrupts the lecture and hands a note to our teacher. He reads it, then asks the pretty blonde girl two rows in front of me to gather her things and go with the aide. Terror and tears gather in her eyes as she leaves the room.

Later we learn that her brother worked in the Twin Towers. That’s all we ever hear.


It’s the summer after my freshman year of college, and I’m getting ready to go to my parents’ office. The bathroom radio plays Top 40 hits while I brush my teeth, wash my face, and get dressed. Through the closed door, the phone rings, but I know my dad will get it.

He knocks a few minutes later. I open the door and find him braced against the frame, his head buried into the crook of his arm. My brows furrow, but even then I’m not alarmed. Just confused.

Later, at my uncle’s funeral, I will think about that moment over and over. I will hear my dad’s voice, calm but thick, as he tells me that his brother is dead. I will think about how we are never really ready for something like that. Never expecting to lose someone that we love.

But I will also remember the strength that my dad showed in the moments after. He grieved, but he did not let grief shut him down. He cried, but he did not drown. He was changed, but not diminished.

I don’t know if I can be that strong that quickly. But I’m glad to have a model for it in my life.

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Thu Mar 13 2014

Being different doesn’t have to mean being divided

Today I’m over at DiversifYA talking about my experiences as a halfie, as well as my advice on how to write diverse characters. I’d love for you to check it out!

Also, this opportunity came about after I commented on my friend Jasmine Warga’s great interview there. She had a lot of smart and eloquent things to say about her Middle Eastern heritage, and about people’s (mis)perceptions of that region (i.e., Aladdin, terrorism, and being “untouched by time”).

I’ve learned to embrace my background. It’s sort of the old adage that when you’re younger, what makes you different makes you embarrassed, but as you grow up, you learn that what makes you different makes you unique, makes you, you.

We’re all human with our own separate affinities, opinions, and interests. As important as I think it is for people to talk and discuss diversity, I want there to be a greater focus on what makes us all similar, as opposed to what divides us.

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