“Yes. And Salt Books knows it’s a low offer. I have half a mind to tell them off, to be honest with you.”
What world have I landed in that $120,000 is considered “low”? But I don’t say it out loud. I merely nod and stay quiet as Rachel continues talking.
“They’re one of the biggest publishers out there—they know that I know they have deep pockets. So. Don’t worry, I have it all under control. Four other publishers have responded and said they will be taking part in the auction.”
My mind is still reeling. I’m on auction? Holy shit. I’m on auction. When we end the call, I stare stupidly at the wall. My deal with Harvest had been for—what was it—$8,000? And I had cried with joy then.And now here I am, turning down an offer for $120,000. What is this life I have landed in?
The auction is surprisingly swift. By the next morning, all participating publishers—eight of them—have made their official first offer. Salt Books, upon learning there is an actual auction, has put in a new offer. Rachel puts together all the offers into a list and sends it to me, and I nearly have a heart attack. The lowest number on there is $250,000—a significant deal—and the highest number is $400,000. When she calls me, I say, “So I guess we’ll go with the highest bidder?”
Rachel gives me a quizzical look, then laughs again. “Oh! No! Auction’s not over yet.”
“It’s not?” I breathe. My eyes must be perfect circles now, I’m so surprised by her answer.
“Nowhere near over. I’ve sent an email to them with rules for round two.”
“Rules?” I knew, of course, that literary agents negotiate deals for authors, but I never knew the amount of tactics and strategy involved in these negotiations.
“Well, a good rule would be to set a floor bid—that means anyone who can’t meet the floor bid will automatically drop out. I think four hundred is good for a floor. And the other rule is that the lowest two bidders will be cut from the auction. So we’re lighting a fire under their butts.” Rachel grins.
Who’s ever heard of lighting a fire under a publisher’s butt? I have never been in this position before. I’ve always been the one sitting on the fire, not the other way around. What if the publishers call our bluff and tell Rachel she’s asking for too much? What if they’re offended by the ridiculously high floor bid? A floor bid of $400,000? Who would’ve thought that was even possible?
“Don’t worry, Fern,” Rachel says, as though she’s read my mind. “I know a good book when I see it, and this is it. And they know it, too, otherwise they wouldn’t be publishers. I’ll speak to you soon!”
I don’t sleep the entire night. I lie in bed, facing one side, then the other. I check my email about fourteen times. I check my settings six times to make sure my phone isn’t on silent mode, even though I know Rachel isn’t going to email me at two in the morning. I open Twitter and look at the comments on tweets about my op-ed. They’re still overwhelmingly positive. The number of likes has slowed down, but we are now at over one hundred thousand likes, and I can live with that. Eventually, I doze off, only to be jerked awake by a call at eight in the morning.
“Good morning!” Rachel says.
“Good morning,” I say, rubbing my eyes.
“Did you see my email? Second-round bids are in.”
“They are?” Belatedly, I remember that New York is three hours ahead of us, so it’s nearly lunchtime there.
“I’ll wait while you check,” Rachel says with a coy smile in her voice.
I hurriedly open her email, and I almost drop the phone when I see the numbers. Five publishers now remain, with the lowest bid at four hundred fifty and the highest at—
“Is this real?” I say, blinking hard, trying to wake up fully. “Six hundred thousand?”
“Yes!” Rachel squeals. “And since we still have five houses in the running, I have called for one final round. A best-bids round.”
“What?” I whisper. We’re at $600,000, and the auction still isn’t over? I can’t process this.
“The deadline is four p.m. today, so by the end of the workday, you’ll have a new publisher. How does that sound?”
I can only nod.
Rachel laughs again and says, “All right, I’ll let you get back to sleep, and I’ll speak to you in a few hours.”
Like there’s any chance in hell that I might get back to sleep after that. I get up and go about my morning routine. I try to speak normally to Mom and Dad because of course I haven’t let them know about any of this for fear of jinxing it. Now that I have actually experienced theexquisite pain of having my book canceled, I am extremely paranoid about doing everything correctly so I don’t mess this second chance up. And what a second chance it is. I know that it’s the kind of chance that comes by less than once in a lifetime. Maybe not even once in several lifetimes. And I would do anything to protect it.
The day crawls by excruciatingly slowly. The slightest noise makes me pounce at my phone.
“Are you expecting a call from someone?” Dad says when I check my phone for the third time during lunch.
“Oh, yeah, just an old friend who wanted to catch up.”
Mom and Dad exchange a glance, and I feel the old tension rising up between us, an old, grizzled beast raising its head slowly.
