A few weeks ago I got an email from a publisher who had a book project for me. It was a good project, and I really wanted to do it. I took the phone calls, I saw the other works they’d published, and I really wanted to jump on board. The publisher talked to my agent, and then I talked to my agent.
I passed on the book, not because there’s anything wrong with That Book, but because it’s not My Book. My Book is 16 chapters and the first three have been written. By the end of the day the fourth will be done, and I hope that my roughest draft will be complete before the springtime.
I had to pass on the book project because I have a book in me. In fact I have two that come flying from my fingers. They’re my best stories, my funniest stuff, my most humiliating moments. They’re everything I’ve withheld from this blog knowing that they were just too good, too long, and too involved to give to cyberspace. They are stories that deserve paper to hold them up.
I am incredibly grateful to the editor who approached me. I’ve looked at her emails a number of times and simply grinned thinking, “Lady, you changed my life and you’ll never know it.”
So I’m writing and it’s a new feeling, because I’m writing and I’m not sharing. I get no feedback. None. I’ll just write and wait.