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SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
For many years I fantasized about what my reaction would be when I got The Call.
“Mr. Hunter, this is Head Editor at XYZ Publishing Company, and we want to buy your book! It’ll go up for auction the day after tomorrow – Steven Spielberg is bidding for the movie rights, and we’d like to sign you to a three book, eight figure deal!”
Of course, I knew it wouldn’t go that way. Hundreds of thousands of new books are published annually, tens of thousand of them novels – and that’s just in English. Those multi-million dollar advances against sales? Publishers aren’t going to take chances on an unknown quantity. Doubleday gave a $2,500 advance to a young first time novelist named Stephen King, for his book Carrie. A million seller? With fiction, 5,000 sold copies are considered a success.
Ah, but my fantasies weren’t about how many copies my first novel would earn; they were about how I would react to getting the word.
There would be swelling music, of course: The kind of John Williams penned stuff that comes at the climax of a movie about some guy who slaves away for years in anonymity, staying optimistic in the face of overwhelming odds, until he triumphs at the end.
Not that I stayed optimistic. On the contrary. I never stopped writing – might as well ask me to hold my breath for thirty years – but many times, disgusted, I gave up on trying to get published. If I’d had more confidence in myself, this moment would have happened last century.
I would, of course, be calm and cool on the phone, taking an “aw, shucks” attitude as the editor praised my work and discussed details on what would happen next. Edits, proofreading, more edits, decisions on cover art, author photo, inside cover blurb … and the hard part, selling my baby to the cold, cruel world.
Then I’d hang up the phone and either:
A. Jump in the air, screaming.
B. Collapse on the floor, sobbing.
That latter isn’t as unlikely as you might think. Consider that I’ve been writing fiction since, literally, before I was old enough to write: at the age of around 7 or so I dictated a story about the Land of Oz, which my mother typed out on the old manual typewriter that she later gave me. (The same typewriter, ironically, that later began my career as a non-fiction writer.)
At 17 I started trying to sell short stories to various science fiction markets. That means I’ve been writing fiction for forty years, and trying to sell it for three decades. If I’m good enough to get published, it may be through sheer repetition.
Gotta love those overnight success stories.
Imagine the emotional impact of achieving success after all those years of never really knowing if I’d make it. Break down crying? It’s a surprise I didn’t drop dead of a heart attack.
The crying didn’t happen, though.
My other fantasy was split: either I would be among a gathering of my loved ones, or I’d be somewhere public, where a crowd would be available to witness my triumph and, surely, cheer me on. I plotted both out in my head. The call would come in, and gradually silence would settle over the room as people began to notice my incredulous, white faced expression.
Then, after disconnecting, I’d turn to the others and breathe, “They’re buying my book.”
Pandemonium would, naturally, follow.
Yeah. That didn’t happen either.
It was the weekend that I wrote about last week: My grandson was rushed to the emergency room, and my daughter got into a crash with a hit and run driver. When my fiancée and I finally got to bed, we’d been up for 24 hours. To say we were exhausted in every way possible is putting it mildly.
We’d been asleep for about two hours when my daughter and her boyfriend called. They knew we were looking for a dresser, and they’d searched around until they found a great buy – on two, which they were bringing over. It was a really great buy.
I stumbled down the stairs and, since I had a little time to wait, shuffled over to the computer. (You know you’re addicted when you get up in the middle of the night to check your e-mails.) With blurry eyes, I read the first one:
Good Afternoon, Mr. Hunter!
Congratulations!
Whiskey Creek Press wishes to offer you a publishing contract for your manuscript, STORM CHASER. Please review the attached contract carefully, and if you accept the terms, please (electronically) sign and email back to me within seven (7) days.
There was more to it, of course: Several pages worth of more. I remember thinking:
“Huh.”
Almost mechanically, I printed out two copies. When my daughter arrived I handed her one, and asked her to run the contract by her grandfather, who’s a retired circuit court judge and knows his stuff contract-wise. Charis took it, and stared at me as if I was crazy for just sitting there like a lump.
Then I carried the other copy upstairs and went back to sleep.
That was it.
When Emily woke up several hours later, I handed her the other copy. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.
“Well … you were asleep.”
It was all very anticlimactic.
The whole thing still hasn’t really sunk in, two weeks later. It could also be that I set my sights too high – John Williams and the Boston Pops weren’t waiting on the front yard when the word came, and in the end I was sitting by myself, half asleep and not entirely convinced I wasn’t hallucinating. Still, plenty of big firsts are yet to come: The first look at the cover art, the first copy in my hands, the first buyer, and eventually the first royalty check. I have a feeling that, once it’s official, I’ll never get tired of identifying myself as a published novelist.
And despite being too tired lately to dance around and hug perfect strangers, I’ve noticed that I smile a whole lot more.
For many years I fantasized about what my reaction would be when I got The Call.
“Mr. Hunter, this is Head Editor at XYZ Publishing Company, and we want to buy your book! It’ll go up for auction the day after tomorrow – Steven Spielberg is bidding for the movie rights, and we’d like to sign you to a three book, eight figure deal!”
Of course, I knew it wouldn’t go that way. Hundreds of thousands of new books are published annually, tens of thousand of them novels – and that’s just in English. Those multi-million dollar advances against sales? Publishers aren’t going to take chances on an unknown quantity. Doubleday gave a $2,500 advance to a young first time novelist named Stephen King, for his book Carrie. A million seller? With fiction, 5,000 sold copies are considered a success.
Ah, but my fantasies weren’t about how many copies my first novel would earn; they were about how I would react to getting the word.
There would be swelling music, of course: The kind of John Williams penned stuff that comes at the climax of a movie about some guy who slaves away for years in anonymity, staying optimistic in the face of overwhelming odds, until he triumphs at the end.
Not that I stayed optimistic. On the contrary. I never stopped writing – might as well ask me to hold my breath for thirty years – but many times, disgusted, I gave up on trying to get published. If I’d had more confidence in myself, this moment would have happened last century.
I would, of course, be calm and cool on the phone, taking an “aw, shucks” attitude as the editor praised my work and discussed details on what would happen next. Edits, proofreading, more edits, decisions on cover art, author photo, inside cover blurb … and the hard part, selling my baby to the cold, cruel world.
Then I’d hang up the phone and either:
A. Jump in the air, screaming.
B. Collapse on the floor, sobbing.
That latter isn’t as unlikely as you might think. Consider that I’ve been writing fiction since, literally, before I was old enough to write: at the age of around 7 or so I dictated a story about the Land of Oz, which my mother typed out on the old manual typewriter that she later gave me. (The same typewriter, ironically, that later began my career as a non-fiction writer.)
At 17 I started trying to sell short stories to various science fiction markets. That means I’ve been writing fiction for forty years, and trying to sell it for three decades. If I’m good enough to get published, it may be through sheer repetition.
Gotta love those overnight success stories.
Imagine the emotional impact of achieving success after all those years of never really knowing if I’d make it. Break down crying? It’s a surprise I didn’t drop dead of a heart attack.
The crying didn’t happen, though.
My other fantasy was split: either I would be among a gathering of my loved ones, or I’d be somewhere public, where a crowd would be available to witness my triumph and, surely, cheer me on. I plotted both out in my head. The call would come in, and gradually silence would settle over the room as people began to notice my incredulous, white faced expression.
Then, after disconnecting, I’d turn to the others and breathe, “They’re buying my book.”
Pandemonium would, naturally, follow.
Yeah. That didn’t happen either.
It was the weekend that I wrote about last week: My grandson was rushed to the emergency room, and my daughter got into a crash with a hit and run driver. When my fiancée and I finally got to bed, we’d been up for 24 hours. To say we were exhausted in every way possible is putting it mildly.
We’d been asleep for about two hours when my daughter and her boyfriend called. They knew we were looking for a dresser, and they’d searched around until they found a great buy – on two, which they were bringing over. It was a really great buy.
I stumbled down the stairs and, since I had a little time to wait, shuffled over to the computer. (You know you’re addicted when you get up in the middle of the night to check your e-mails.) With blurry eyes, I read the first one:
Good Afternoon, Mr. Hunter!
Congratulations!
Whiskey Creek Press wishes to offer you a publishing contract for your manuscript, STORM CHASER. Please review the attached contract carefully, and if you accept the terms, please (electronically) sign and email back to me within seven (7) days.
There was more to it, of course: Several pages worth of more. I remember thinking:
“Huh.”
Almost mechanically, I printed out two copies. When my daughter arrived I handed her one, and asked her to run the contract by her grandfather, who’s a retired circuit court judge and knows his stuff contract-wise. Charis took it, and stared at me as if I was crazy for just sitting there like a lump.
Then I carried the other copy upstairs and went back to sleep.
That was it.
When Emily woke up several hours later, I handed her the other copy. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.
“Well … you were asleep.”
It was all very anticlimactic.
The whole thing still hasn’t really sunk in, two weeks later. It could also be that I set my sights too high – John Williams and the Boston Pops weren’t waiting on the front yard when the word came, and in the end I was sitting by myself, half asleep and not entirely convinced I wasn’t hallucinating. Still, plenty of big firsts are yet to come: The first look at the cover art, the first copy in my hands, the first buyer, and eventually the first royalty check. I have a feeling that, once it’s official, I’ll never get tired of identifying myself as a published novelist.
And despite being too tired lately to dance around and hug perfect strangers, I’ve noticed that I smile a whole lot more.
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