Over the next few days, my inbox chimes repeatedly with updates from Poppy. The updates are all the same: “Seagull Books has bowed out” and “Appetite Press is backing out” and so on. One by one, the remaining publishers send their congratulations and their well-wishes and tell Poppy in no uncertain terms that they are not interested in my book. I would be lying if I said their mass rejection didn’t sting, but the sting is akin to the snap of a rubber band—it hurts for half a second, then the pain dissipates so quickly that you forget it was ever there in the first place. The familiar disappointment, once so harsh that I found it numbing, now washes easily off me. All I have to do is remind myself that one publisher does want me and has given “a really strong offer,” words that I carry with me like a talisman.
A week passes, and soon there is only one publisher who has yet to reply. Atherton Publishing. Poppy calls and tells me she has sent them two nudges and isn’t expecting a reply from them at this point. “I’m really unimpressed with the editor, Catherine Rudick. We’ve met in person—we’ve had lunch! It’s so unprofessional of her to ignore my emails like this.”
It does seem rude, especially since they have established a relationship. I can’t imagine ghosting someone I’ve lunched with. Still, it sounds like a bullet dodged to me. If an editor can’t even be bothered to reply to an agent nudging her with an offer in hand, then it’s not like I want to work with that editor. “Oh well,” I say lightheartedly. I can affordto be lighthearted now. I could really get used to this version of me. “Bullet dodged, right?”
“Totally,” Poppy says. “You have such a good attitude, Fern. You know, that’s the number one thing I always tell people they need if they want to make it in publishing. Even more important than actual writing chops,” she adds with a laugh. “Though, of course, you have both, so you’re golden.”
Every word Poppy says, I memorize and tuck away in the far reaches of my mind so I can savor it later. I let her compliment fill me up like sunshine from a goblet, making me warm from the inside out.
“So,” Poppy says, “with all the other publishers now out of the running, shall I tell Harvest that you’re happy to go with their offer and start negotiating the terms?”
My throat closes up with emotion, and it takes me a second to respond. I start nodding before I realize she can’t see me, and through a clot of tears, I manage to choke out “Yes.”
Poppy laughs. “Wonderful! I’m going to see if they can increase their advance as well. They probably won’t go up much higher, since we’re not in a competitive situation, but ...”
I sag back against my chair, letting her words wash over me. The idea of asking for a higher advance hasn’t even occurred to me, because let’s face it, at this point, I would’ve taken a book deal with zero advance, as long as it’s from a proper publisher and I can go around telling people I’m a published author. As Poppy continues talking about sub rights—what even are sub rights?—I let my thoughts wander. I’ll update my socials to announce my book title and publisher the way that every other author I follow does. Fern Huang, author ofThe Happiest of Unhappy Days, Harvest Press 2020. Come to think of it, I don’t know what year my book will be published, so I interrupt Poppy and ask her.
“Publication will likely be in the fall of 2020,” Poppy says.
Fall of 2020. A little under two years from now. It feels like forever away, but it also feels magical, like a year that was always going to meansomething special, something unique to me. “Sounds perfect,” I say. I’m still floating on air when we hang up.
Two years from the time a publishing offer is made leading up to the actual publication of the book may seem like a long time, but it isn’t, because of several reasons. For one, publishing is known to be a “hurry up and wait” industry. While the author tears her hair out over editing the manuscript into shape, the publishing team will be working on things like the book cover and sales meetings. I know all of this in theory, of course, though I’ve never had firsthand experience of it. But I know enough to not be taken aback by how long it will be before my book baby hits the shelves.
I glance up to see Annette glaring at me from her office. When she catches my eye, she makes a gesture that I think is supposed to mean: Get the hell back to work, what am I paying you for? I give her a sheepish smile before morphing my expression into one of fierce concentration and turning my attention back to my computer. I hope it looks like I am furiously editing a batch of photos, but in actuality, I have a tab opened to my Twitter, and I’m scrolling through the meager number of tweets on my profile.
My handle is @FernNotThePlant, and I have a grand total of 112 followers. Most of them are fellow hopeful writers; Publishing Twitter is a huge niche, and people are very active and very friendly on here. I’ve met up with a couple of them—just one of the many perks of living in New York City. The three of us had met through a pitching event on Twitter and gotten together one rainy afternoon for a coffee. James and Tina were pleasant, but we didn’t quite hit it off well enough to make the effort of arranging another meetup. We still regularly talk online, though—or rather, reply to one another’s tweets—and that’s sufficient for me. I consider them writer friends. My face lights up as I think about telling them my news.
I click on the compose-tweet button, and my fingers hover above the keyboard. I type out: “Guess who’s about to become a published author?” I delete it immediately. We’re not allowed to announce bookdeals before they go on Publishers Marketplace, an official publishing website that announces all legit book deals, and the last thing I want to do is jeopardize my deal before it’s even happened yet. In fact, I remind myself, I don’t technically have a book deal yet. There is no contract. Negotiations haven’t even begun. They could still fall through. The thought of it is like a gut punch to me. No way, they couldn’t fall through. There is literally nothing that Harvest Press could throw at me that would make me turn down their offer.
I type: “Something good just happened.” I lick my lips, then change “good” to “magical” and add “#publishing #writingcommunity.” There. That’s vague enough not to land me in trouble, but also specific enough to let people know that the magical news has to do with publishing. I hit “Tweet,” then I minimize the tab and force myself to go back to the photo editing software.
For the next ten minutes, I busy myself with applying preapproved sets of filters to photos of deliriously happy couples. If I didn’t want to stay single before, working for Annette has definitely cemented my decision to stay out of romantic relationships. Just from looking at these pictures, you’d think that these couples are perfect. They can’t possibly want for anything. And yet I know what happens behind the scenes, and it’s often ugly. This one couple, for example, could not stop arguing throughout the entire half-day shoot. And this other one was even worse—it was obvious the guy didn’t want to be there, and the woman felt so nervous that she was dementedly cheerful, shrilly begging her fiancé to smile for just one more picture as he sulked at the camera. The whole time, I felt so sad for her. I wanted to give her a hug. And yet here are their photos, beautiful soft sunlight lining their hair gold, and adoring smiles all around. There is a metaphor for life somewhere here.
I sneak a quick glance at Annette before switching back to Twitter. Seven likes and one comment from a writer friend of mine.
@ChickaDoodle:
Seeing the likes and the comment sends a delicious little shot of endorphins through my system. I reply with a GIF of someone giggling while covering her mouth, then I minimize the tab again and go back to the photos.
The rest of the workday goes this way. Me working in ten-to-fifteen-minute bursts before I give in to my curiosity and check my Twitter. By the end of the day, I have a grand total of eighty-two likes and nine comments. By far the most successful tweet I’ve ever posted. The whole way home, as I walk down the steps to the subway, as I stand inside the train and hang on to a pole for balance, as I trudge down the street to my apartment, I can’t tear my eyes off my phone screen. I know how dangerous it is, especially for a lone woman, to be doing this, but I can’t help it. Over and over again, I read the comments.
@TashaRyWrites:Omggg is this what I think it is??
@SammyLL:Fern!!! DMing youRight Now!!
@Cowcowwo:You can’t leave us hanging like this, what is it?!
The rest are just as jubilant, and their joy and excitement is infectious. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from grinning like a total loon. My cheeks are hurting from all the smiling. I did, of course, DM most of them.
@FernNotThePlant:Giiirl! It’sAn Offer.
@SammyLL:OMGGG!! FERN!!! AHHH!
@FernNotThePlant:I Know!
@SammyLL:Who from?? How much??!! AHH!!
@FernNotThePlant:I can’t say yet, but as soon as I’m allowed to I’ll share all the deets!!
