I was made on offer on one of my manuscripts!
I don’t think words can adequately describe how I feel about this. I’m scared and excited and nervous and delighted and freaked out. I’m pretty certain I had a panic attack when I was working up to hit the “send” button to accept the contract. My pulse raced, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And I know that makes me sound totally crazy. I knew it then, too.
Because… wait for it… it is crazy. But then, this whole scenario strikes me as crazy–after all, I wrote a trashy book that someone wants to publish.
Now, I use the term trashy somewhat loosely. Trashy, in my world, is a book that doesn’t make you think a whole lot, that you can get through in a day or so, and will have a happy ending. Trashy books will have a couple of good sex scenes, or enough of a make out where a little part of you goes *sigh*.
Trashy is like a rush of pure sugar: it’s brain candy. Trashy goes to the beach and has a binding so worn it automatically falls open to “the scene.” Literary fiction goes on the bookshelf prominently displayed so people think you’re smart and well-read (and you are, but come on! Don’t try to pretend you don’t do it too! I have all my nonfiction and literary fiction–everything from James Joyce and Sophocles to Rilke and Hesse and Salman Rushdie and Ayn Rand–carefully arranged in bookshelves in the hallway. But the trashy book I actually like to read? Stashed inside the night stand in a jumbled heap–for easy access).
Honestly, literary fiction is like broccoli to a trashy book’s cotton candy.
So that’s what I wrote: brain candy. And just because it’s brain candy, doesn’t mean it’s not good.
Anyway, I’m pretty excited about this turn of events. Shocked and stunned, too. It’s a good thing. But nerve-wracking too. Now, if I could just get out of my head, I could actually enjoy this moment.
Hm… I think I need some brain candy.