Me, just with a book deal.

I had this planned. And I have been writing this post since Friday. No. That’s not true. Since blogs were.

It was the same way I had the most awesome brain-movie about how I would tell my parents I was pregnant. We’d come to visit them and I’d give mom a big wrapped present and say, “I know it’s not Christmas or anything but I couldn’t pass this up. I knew you’d absolutely love it.” And then she’d open it up to my sonograms and OOHHHAAAYYY!!! Screams of joy and laughter and tears and a wobbly smile from my Dad…I planned that since before I met my husband.

What really happened was that Dad died before I even thought to get pregnant, and I tried not to tell Mom till the 12th week like you’re supposed to but I ended up calling her from our bed on a random first trimester afternoon, feeling miserable and sick and…”Yeah I’m pregnant.” She was still excited but…reality is so heavy and dull-shaded. So disappointing.

So.

Yeah, I sold my book.

I thought I should write one cuz I’m funny and I like history and have an unending desire for approval from strangers. A book about what it was really like to be a woman in the 19th century…how you dealt with your period and your lack of human rights and stuff. Then…boring boring great agent boring boring write a proposal boring boring…an awesome editor at Little, Brown makes a preemptive offer the second day the proposal  was is on the market, scaring off all the other interested publishing houses, which, I’m not gonna lie, included all the Big 5 cuz both my agent and I are very good at what we do. Those parts weren’t boring. Those parts were awesome. Unbelievably stressful, tho. My muscles have ached for two weeks from the excitement-pain.

The hardest part, besides trying to understand contracts and money and shit (which I just…eventually gave up on because I believe I have a very good agent so she can do that stuff) has been the undeniable reality that I am still ME. Tubby, unbrushed hair, squawking at/ignoring my children…bleah. No more wittier or wise. Not prettier. I somehow thought it would make me prettier? No mind-movie.

I know, but only in a loose, disconnected way, that had me of three years ago meant someone like me today, the excitement and ache of being next to someone with this sort of success would have laid me out on the floor. But…meh. So meh. Why is it so MEH?

Maybe because it’s real. Maybe a person’s brain simply cannot let them continue on in a state of pure adoration and awe of themselves because the chemical levels would just tear them apart.

I am so happy and so excited and already planning out my third book. I have a bizarre unshakable knowledge that this will be successful. It is just meant to be. I was born for this.

But I guess I’m just gonna…be me…while it happens. Sort of a downer, but I’ll manage.

I am not going to re-read this before I publish it. I don’t dare or it will be cast aside with the other six attempts at telling the world the best news I’ve ever had to tell. So forgive all the gristle and bones and lack of fluidity or overarching message. I’m still just me.

Oh! There. Take that one, it’ll do.

Still just me.

 

5 thoughts on “Me, just with a book deal.

  1. “…a person’s brain simply cannot let them continue on in a state of pure adoration and awe of themselves….” You’re right about the chemical levels of narcissism wreaking havoc, but with a ton of people (certain politicians come to mind), self-adoration vaporizes their humanity. They turn into turds. So you go right ahead and be happy, T, but don’t worry about vaporizing because YOU WILL NEVER BE A TURD. Your heart’s too big. Congratulations.

    Like

  2. Hi Therese –

    Congratulations!

    And here’s the cool part – you don’t know me from Eve. I just follow your blog because I stumbled upon it one day and then, you know, kept listening.

    You are a wonderful writer! (I think I am too and want to meet your agent. But since that’s not gonna happen) I am truly happy for you.

    Like

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