“You will sell this book.”
(That was the sound of me falling over backward. It’s not clear if it was a lack of oxygen to the brain, or an over-inflated ego that off-balanced me.)
Okay, so what does he know?
Well, he is an editor; he’s qualified to give an opinion.
Yes, but I’m paying him.
But he quit–54 pages into a critique. Offered me a refund. Said it was the best thing he’s read all spring and summer.
I admit I’m an approval junkie with crushing self-esteem issues. I suspect I’ve contrived a situation in order to hear what I crave.
He didn’t say that the last time.
But maybe the other 221 pages suck.
Will. You. Stop.
Suddenly I’m transported to the movie opening, walking down the red carpet in some badass Jimmy Choos and something floor-length and understated. I’ve been working out. I’ve gotten Botox–but it’s really well done–no one can even tell.
No, wait. There I am–watching Fox news and there are a half-dozen sign-waving, polyester-clad folks in front of Grace United Baptist Church in Duck Falls, Arkansas. They’re burning my book. It’s been banned at two dozen libraries already.
Just. Calm. Down.
Even if I ever managed to ever catch the fancy of some audacious, up-and-coming literary agent, what publisher is going to tangle with something so…um…unapologetic?
Stranger things have happened. Best not to get snarky, but there are worse things than publishing something honest and plausible. Because HitList is true, or it could be and for all you know, it’s happening in the high school across town or a river town in Iowa. You’ll see it on the news tonight. Someone may as well tell the story; may as well be me.
Tossed aside, passed out in the gutter, left for dead. But the Editor Guy thinks my baby is beautiful. And maybe she is.
Enough for now, I have to go–I have work to do!