She was late...or was she? I didn't know what she looked like; she could be sitting right next to me and I wouldn't know it, so I just kept smiling at strangers. We said 4:30. It was 4:40. Ok, so ten minutes can happen to anyone. Then fifteen, then twenty, and then thirty. Forty-five minutes doesn't happen to just anyone. I slipped my phone out of my great-grandmother's purse, the embroidered one she brought over from England, and lit the screen with my thumb: 5:15. I had two choices. I could dissolve into tears, or I could go buy a soy latte, put on some lipstick, and pull myself together. Since tears solve nothing really, I bought my coffee and sat down to wait for the next fifteen minutes. I would give her until 5:30.
The phone buzzed in my hand, and my pulse leaped, but I quickly recognized the number.
"Hi Daddy!"
"Hey Bones! Your mom said you needed to talk. What's up?"
"Well," I sighed. "The publisher was supposed to meet me at 4:30, and she's almost an hour late. I don't have internet and mom's working. Can you hack into my email and see if I missed something?"
"Sure, but doesn't this woman have your cell number?"
"She never asked for it, and I was too dumb to offer it."
There was nothing; no new email, no confirmation, nothing. It was 5:30.
As soon as I walked in my room, I opened my email and shot off a very cordial "you-forgot-about-me" email, and even offered to reschedule at the time most convenient for her.
This was supposed to be an easy shot! A local, Christian publisher who operates a small house and promises to work personally with her authors? This publishing house was so in my comfort zone it had practically established a residency! Granted, I had my doubts. I had a lot of doubts, but I'd shoved them aside because maybe, just maybe, God was going to do something incredible through this humble beginning. It was an open door! Even as I sat by my computer feeling very sorry for myself, lamenting the proverbial door that had slammed in my face, I swallowed back those nagging doubts. I could still make this happen! Maybe this could still work! So what if today's door closed? I'd kick it open tomorrow! I'm an amazing goad-kicker. Not "goat" kicker...the PETA people are watching. If this was God's will, and if it was just going to take hard work and patience, I'd give this woman another chance.
When her reply came, I had already forgiven her and wanted to reschedule. Her excuse was a solid one, so we exchanged phone numbers this time and promised to meet the next Friday. I still had no idea what she looked like, but when a woman walked through the cafe doors and smiled, I ventured the guess:
"Excuse me, are you Amy?"
"Samantha?"
THANK GOD!
We took our tea to a nearby table, and began the "getting-to-know-you-and-your-book" process. She talked about her books, her clients, the growth her business had seen in the past five years. I was impressed! She insisted that she never, never printed graphic sexual novels or anything with language or violence, and is committed to working personally with each of her authors. Cool! As she spread out her bestselling novels on the table, and handed me news articles about her clients, I started to get a little excited. She liked what she had read of my novel so far, and offered to read the rest and perhaps offer me a contract. I was dwelling on that word contract, one of the most beautiful words in the English language. We parted ways, thanked each other for our time, and she promised to be in touch in a few days.
At home, I filled my parents in on the conversation and, again, we were all a little excited, but I had to admit I felt like something was off. Something was not as it should be, though I desperately wanted this to work. The more I thought about it, the worse the feeling got. Here was the problem: I would have to pay for every copy out of my own pocket. Basically, I pay for the books to be printed, and the publisher distributes them. I know, know, know that any good literary agent will tell you that is unacceptable. I KNOW this, but Amy had said contract. That word just...ugh! A contract can change your life. Then there was the fact that she spent more time selling her company's services to me than I did selling the book. My gut was nudging me in the ribs saying something was wrong, but was it?
Come back tomorrow to learn why I should win a cookie for being right.
No comments:
Post a Comment