Another favorite moment was when I was walking along and heard a man playing Amazing Grace on the flute. A picture could never have done that justice.
At the RWA writing conference, I enjoyed the workshops, talking with the ladies, and every event I attended. But while I was outside, this little family was one of my favorite parts of the actual Riverwalk.
Another favorite moment was when I was walking along and heard a man playing Amazing Grace on the flute. A picture could never have done that justice. I was concentrating on my latest Work In Progress, and was outside with my laptop when a roadrunner walked through the yard. Then, he flew onto a stack of firewood behind me.
If he was trying to read over my shoulder, he didn't succeed, because I immediately stopped working to watch him. Seeing the first physical copy of my book was different than I'd expected. Opening the box of them was wonderful. But it felt a bit odd. For years, whenever I'd looked at a book I'd written it was in manuscript form. A file in my computer or words printed on 8 1/2" by 11" paper—usually ending up with editing notes written on it.
Now it's in book form. Copyright notice in my name. Bound pages. Cover. Just like every other book I'd read by—someone else. This stack of books didn't feel like my story. Finally, I did what I always do when I get a new book. I picked it up and started reading. But this time I searched for specific parts. I looked for Chapter Twenty-four. It was fun to write. And when I saw the words rat face I remembered how I'd wondered whether the editor would leave those words in the story. She did. Then the novel started to feel like my book. And now it was back in my hands. It's as if the characters have returned home, but they're standing on their own now. Sitting at my computer on the day I got the call from an editor telling me I’d sold my first manuscript, I took stock of how it hadn't changed my life. Selling a manuscript hadn’t cured the chips on my fingernails. Rose petals didn't fall from the sky and flutter down around me. I was not younger or thinner. Now, in fact, I had a new deadline and more work to do. It was the 26th of November. Thanksgiving was forty-eight hours away, and I needed a synopsis of my book on the editor’s desk the next day. I sent the synopsis and prepared for the holiday. On that Thanksgiving morning, while I was showering, we had a small earthquake. I wasn’t surprised. After years and years of struggling, I’d sold a novel. The earth was shaking. I like to think it was celebrating. And the movement wasn’t because I was doing the Happy Dance. I was too busy to dance. I received the actual contract on a Friday a few weeks later. It seemed like a much, much longer wait than that. Finally, on December 18th, I was ready to mail the contract. I told my husband I was going to listen to a Beatles song. He knew which one. Paperback Writer. After years of identifying with that song, I could listen to it while knowing I was going to have my own paperback. That was the culmination of dream. But I had one more surprise to discover. The editor asked for a photo, and the photographer did a bit of retouching. I looked thinner and younger--at least in the picture. I'm happy. I've heard writing compared to a roller coaster ride. Of course I would agree, and add in the fact I get motion sickness. But I didn't have any idea of how fast the ride could be in writing. I expected to be happy when I first learned I was getting published. I was, I think. Tearfully so. I didn't just cry when I got the news; I cried every time I thought of it. It's hard to experience joy fully when you keep sniffling. The most surreal moment was seeing the cover. I didn't have a concrete image of the characters in my head. And when I saw them, I was impressed. Whoever selected the models and pose couldn't have done a better job. I was pleased to see what my characters really look like. Seeing the book actually on the website caused a bit of a scream, and an instant headache. If you can have happy tears, I suppose I had a happy headache--but it still hurt. I suppose my blood pressure might have jumped a considerable amount. And just this moment, I realized I'll be able to put a copy of my book on a bookshelf in my house. I'd once seen into another writer's closet where she had copies of her books stacked and I was impressed. She'd had 86 books published and a few foreign editions... I don't think it ever occurred to me that I would some day need to find a bookcase in my house for a book I'd written. And all my bookcases are already overflowing with other writers' books. I suppose I could put my book in a closet. Yeah. Like that's going to happen... |
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