This time last year, I could not shut up about how a Real Live Editor had contacted me, and liked my book, and might even buy it. My wondrous friends and family bore with me without a single complaint, without even a single snide, "Yes, Deb, WE KNOW."
Frightened of jinxing myself, I didn't actually talk about it on the blog overmuch. The clues were there, just sorta buried. For instance, here I mention the phone call, and here I talk about how bad I am at waiting, and do you notice how in both instances I'm implying it's all to do with the new bed? Oh, I was lying, lying through my electronic teeth. A fortnight later, I fessed up to signing with my agent, but it wasn't until the ink was dry on the A&U contract that I confessed the book deal proper. Because although it was becoming increasingly remote, there was still the possibility that I was making the whole thing up.1
Last night, I wrote my acknowledgments, and tomorrow the book is going to print.
Which means this little beast is now truly out of my hands.
Do you know, I think I might celebrate. Drinks all round!
- It is worth noting that, although the cheque for the advance didn't convince me it was all real, the editorial process did. No one is that thorough on a manuscript that isn't going to print. [↩]