The Publisher Part II

It's fun to be right!

                                                                            source

And then sometimes its so much better to be wrong.

If you didn't read part one of this two-part tragedy, go here first. A week and a half had gone by since I sent the publisher my polished, edited, clipped-and-combed baby. This 73,000-word brain-child I had poured a year and a half into, this project I had cried over, prayed over, lamented over, was finished and sitting in a publisher's inbox and the U.S. Copyright office. Originally  I didn't think I had to copyright because the title was tentative, but my mother, sensing my reservations about the publisher, prompted me to insure my work.

"You don't know if this woman is going to cut and run with your book! she said. "What would it hurt to have the thing copyrighted?"

So, I stayed up until the wee hours moving commas, refreshing stale adjectives, and filling out paperwork. I went to work exhausted the next day, but it was done. Now the government had my baby, and so did this stranger. Which thought troubled me more? Now, I'm not the type of person who likes to dwell in suspicion and  pessimism, so I decided I didn't care. Well, I couldn't do anything at this point, so why make myself crazy with worry? All I could do was wait to see if the publisher even wanted the book. She could turn around and say it's utter rubbish, unreadable, a regular E.L. James! Don't bother writing ever again!

With my adopted apathetic attitude (which was honestly a load of malarkey), I tried to get on with life. I went to work, saw my brother fly off to Africa, and I tried to watch dumb TV. I mean, I had written a book! It was time to put the brain on freeze. Of course, my mental holiday only lasted a couple of days before I was reading and writing again. Like I've said before, its a compulsion.

One night, I received an invite from my friend Molly to come over for a movie and some wine. We never actually watched the movie, instead talking politics, travel, food, jobs, and literature...mostly literature. It's one of the reasons we get along so well; we both consume books like a New York commuter from Jersey downing coffee on a Monday rush hour. Moll is brilliant, and she knows a good read when she sees it. When the subject moved to what we'd recently read, she jumped up from her couch.

"I need to show you something, Sami! You'll love this. I found this book, and I don't think its ever seen an editor. Typos everywhere! Wait here!"

She disappeared down the hall, and I sipped on my glass of wine. Then out of nowhere I got the feeling. You may think I'm a right nutter, but here goes. Sometimes I clearly hear God whisper to my heart. If you have found this blog, you know that I am a Christian; I have a relationship with God. I talk to Him daily, and sometimes He speaks to my heart. I can't tell you what it feels or sounds like; it's just obviously Him. Like when the person you love comes into the room when your back is turned and you automatically know they are there without seeing or hearing them. This was one of those times.

As I watched Molly disappear down the hall to get the book never before seen by an editor, I felt the whisper.

"It's one of Amy's books." 
I stood up.
"No. God, no it's not. You're joking. That is impossible."
"Daughter, it's one of Amy's."

I could hear Molly's feet coming back down the dark hall. In her hand, even from a distance, I saw the familiar cover, and my knees buckled.

"Moll, that's my publisher."
"Are you serious?" 
"Yes. I've seen that book before, and that's my publisher."

I burst out laughing because that's what I do when I'm nervous or stunned. I turned the book over in my hands. There was the publisher's mark.

"Sami, I don't think any editor ever saw this book. I mean, they couldn't have! There is no way. And how is your publisher a Christian? This book has so much sex and the main character curses out God! I mean, she curses him out badly."

Now, I don't mind profanity in books, though I'd prefer it if authors avoid it. And graphic sex in books just feels like a waste of time because it really tells you nothing about the characters. But in that moment, what I couldn't stand was the fact that Amy had promised me repeatedly that inappropriate content would never find its way into her books, yet here it was. She had promised me that each novel went through three editing stages, but the first sentence of this poor book bore typos that even my sixth graders at school would have identified, let alone a trained editor. It was so ridiculous, so bizarre, so sad, I had to ask.

"The author?"
"She'll never use these people again," sighed Moll. "Sami, what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I think I need to get my baby back from this woman. I'm getting an agent. She may not even offer me a contract, though. I may not have to worry about it."

Back at home, I threw my coat down on my chair and went to my computer. The weird feeling, the whisper, was there again.

"Daughter, check your email."

My eyes scanned my inbox, falling on the address in bold type. I laughed aloud, and then clicked it open.
A contract.
She had offered me a contract.

Receiving a contract is supposed to feel like someone just asked you to marry them. Ok, maybe not that great, but you are supposed to feel some semblance of joy and acceptance. I just felt like laughing cynically and going for a walk. I fired the contract off to my roommate who studied publishing in Oxford, and was not surprised when the email reply basically confirmed my own opinions: run. I was going to lose money, time, and probably smear the rest of my writing career by publishing a book that wasn't edited or well represented.

So here you find me. I have not officially fired the first publisher, but she's basically fired. I'm not signing the contract, but I am soliciting agents. This process is going to be long, difficult, and rejection is a given, but it's better than the alternative.

I will keep you all in the loop. LOVE