I’ve been waiting a long time for my book, “Loon Point,” to sell.
If I’m honest, it hasn’t been that long. It’s been five months, and that seems like a long time. But in the publishing world, that is the blink of an eye.
I talk to my old friend, Andrew, all the time about trying to get this book sold. Andrew told me that, if he ever sold a book, he’d ride around New York City in a red convertible wearing a long white silk scarf.
“New York is not a great climate for convertibles,” I pointed out. “And the subway is much faster.”
“I don’t care. That’s what I’d do.”
“Plus, I’ve never seen you wear a scarf.”
Andrew insisted he would wear one, so I bought him a scarf for his birthday. It was not white or silk. It was a soft wool plaid and much more practical. I’ve never seen him wear that one, either.
But last week, I got some good news. “Loon Point” has finally found a publisher. It’s a nice, big publisher with plenty of resources, and I’m very happy. The whole thing is exciting, and the only part that is a little discouraging is that the process will take a year and a half.
“2026?” my husband, Peter, said. I could tell he was disappointed.
“Yup. Eighteen months. I think that’s pretty standard.”
Since I spent only 50 days writing the book, it does seem slow. But I know that good things are worth waiting for, and this process of finding an agent and then having my agent find a publisher has taught me a lot.
There were times when I thought nothing at all was going to happen. I thought this book would go nowhere and never be in readers’ hands. I occasionally even thought that the whole idea of becoming a fiction writer for the first time—at my age—was a little silly. I should have given myself at least another decade to get a running start.
But these moods didn’t last long because, even when no one seemed the least bit interested in my book, I was having a good time.
I was writing this column every week. I was writing more stories. And I was watching my old brain pick up new skills. I could look at something I’d written even six months earlier and see that I was better than I had been. It was a joyful thing.
My new editor just sent me a long questionnaire to fill out. They want to know what I’d like the cover to look like, and whether there will be questions for the readers at the end, and what sorts of accents the person reading the audiobook should have. And it occurred to me that, if I was doing this in my 20s or 30s, I’d be a wreck. I would have been less patient, far more afraid of messing something up.
As it is, I’m looking forward to learning how this whole thing works. I want to see how the sausage is made. I want to see how these editors and designers and directors and marketers do what they do so well. I want to work with a whole bunch of people who know a whole lot more than I do, and to keep learning. My plan is to have a good time—and to keep writing every day.
My agent told me I should get the final contract next week. I told Andrew we needed to celebrate. I might even wear a scarf.
Till next time,
Carrie
