Lisa Garcia:Agreed! Fern I think it’s so cool that you’re an only child writing about siblings. I am definitely up for reading each other’s manuscripts. Shall we do that? My email address is [email protected].
Both Jenna and I share our email addresses, too, and I spend the rest of my break time furiously speed-reading the most recent version of my manuscript, tweaking this word choice and that sentence as the minutes tick down. Then, just as Annette gives an obnoxious clearing ofher throat, I get to the end, and—well, I don’t know, is it good enough to send to Jenna and Lisa? But so what if it isn’t? It’s not like I can do anything about that at this point. And if the book is good enough for an editor at Harvest Press to give me actual money for it, then surely it’s good enough to share with a couple of other writers that I’ve just met. But god, it’s nerve racking, like stepping outside a changing room naked and asking these two strangers to scrutinize every aspect of my flawed flesh.
Stop that, I scold myself again. This is part of the process. We are writers—what else are we going to bond over if not our writing? I attach the manuscript to an email and type out:I’m so glad that we’re doing this! I can’t wait to read both of your books!Once again, I hit send without letting myself think twice, then I go back to the Excel sheet and lose myself in numbers.
Minutes later, or maybe hours later—what does time even mean anymore, these days?—my phone beeps with an incoming email. It’s from Jenna, with her manuscript attached.Here’s mine! I’m going to read yours in alphabetical order so it’s Fern’s first, lol!
My heart squeezes, half with joy, half with anxiety. Somehow, I refrain from replying right away. I push my phone aside and finish up updating the Excel sheet before moving on to checking the contact-form email on the website. My phone beeps again, and this time, it’s from Lisa.That’s a good idea, Jenna! Okay, since you’re reading Fern’s first, I’ll read yours first.
This time, I reply immediately.I love this. Okay, I’ll read yours first, Lisa. Yaaay! This is perfect!
I can barely concentrate on anything the rest of the day, but fortunately it’s a pretty light workload today, with just three general inquiries to reply to. I copy and paste our usual response to the inquiries, then move on to photo editing, something I actually enjoy doing because I can turn my brain off and apply the presets to them before letting Annette know that the folder is ready for her review. By the time Iknock off, I’m still buzzing with bubbly energy. I download Lisa’s manuscript onto my phone and begin reading as soon as I’m out of the office.
Lisa’s book is a family drama, a genre I’m not usually drawn to, but I find myself being sucked in within the first two pages. Her prose is incisive. She doesn’t waste any time on flowery phrases, cutting instead straight to the bone. It’s a powerful piece, and the more I read, the worse I feel about my own work. Ten pages in, I minimize the document and call up my own manuscript. I compare our opening pages, my heart sinking as I notice how obvious the discrepancy in our skill level is. While I dither about, wasting valuable first-page real estate on introducing my main character, Lisa slices right into the heart of the story. Her opening line is “We find out that we’re not twins on a Tuesday afternoon.” Mine: “She wakes up to a beautiful morning, with a breeze blowing in through the open window caressing her face.”
I thought, when I wrote that first line, that it was beautiful and dreamy, but now I see it for what it is, an author clearing her throat before she begins the actual story. My cheeks blaze with shame. How could I have sent this to Lisa? By now, my stomach is churning, warm acid burning up my chest. I close my manuscript and instead open Jenna’s. Please, please, I think to myself, please let hers be bad too. I grimace at how mean that thought was, and correct myself mentally. Not bad, I’m sure it won’t be bad at all, but please let it not be so ... brilliant.
Jenna’s book opens with: “For as long as Thomas can remember, he’s always hated his brother Kev.” Not bad, but definitely not brilliant either. I read on, and the more I take in, the looser the knot in my chest feels. Soon, I feel like I can breathe normally once more. Okay. It’s fine. I’m not the worst writer in the group. Plus, I remind myself, Jenna is the one with the smallest deal, and reading her manuscript, I can totally see why. Publishing is a meritocracy, and that’s never been clearer than it is now. Again, I feel a stab of shame with that petty thought. Stop thinking like that. That’s Haven-talk, that is. I am not this person. I am not someone who judges others, especially my own friends, to makemyself feel better. I read another page while making a conscious effort to look for positives. Jenna is great at dialogue. Her characters’ speech sounds natural and utterly believable. Jenna is good at pacing. Jenna uses adjectives sparingly.
There. I’ve proved to myself that I’m not a bitch. I’m a good person.
But it’s not enough. I still feel bad, so I open up Gmail and compose a message to just Jenna.Hey Jenna! I couldn’t resist taking a peek at your manuscript, and can I just say, OMG! I love it so far! Your dialogues are so realistic. I can totally imagine real people saying them. I find dialogue really hard to write, so kudos to you!
Okay, now finally I stop feeling like an asshole. See? Being a good person isn’t hard. It just takes a bit of effort.
With the email out of the way, I go back to Lisa’s manuscript, my insides shriveling up once more as I lose myself in her gorgeous story. When I get back to my apartment, I go to my computer and look up Lisa’s deal announcement on Publishers Marketplace.
Lisa Garcia’sThey Fall Harder in threes, a family drama about a pair of twins who find out in adulthood that they may in fact not be twins, but triplets, and go on a hunt for their missing sibling, to Natasha Tory at Paper Machine, in a two-book deal, in a good deal, for publication in spring 2020, by Jasmine Stevens at Stevens Literary Agency (NA).
A “good deal” in publishing speak is anything between $100,000 and $250,000. She is getting paid way more than I am, which stings. I mean, logically, I know it makes sense because the quality of the work is truly staggering, but it still stings, the knowledge that she’s so far ahead of me. Still, I remind myself, it’s all about the writing, and as long as I keep my head down and keep improving, one day I, too, will get there. And I’ve had years learning to keep my head down, haven’t I? And I should be taking this as my chance to learn. I go back to the beginningof Lisa’s manuscript and reread the opening chapter with a critical eye this time, taking apart her writing down to the elements, noting how she achieves certain effects, the cadence and rhythm of her sentences, the succinct elegance of her word choice.
I’m so motivated to improve myself that I could swear my writing skill has leveled up by the end of chapter one. I can identify Lisa’s sleight of hand and the conscious decisions she must have made at this paragraph and at that page to make the reader think or feel a certain way. And if I can identify it, that means I can replicate it.
This is what I’m good at. Quiet self-improvement. Watching others, absorbing what they do, how they talk, their hand gestures when they communicate, their facial expressions, and practicing so that I get better at social interactions. And it’s just the same with books. This is exactly why I know that my tiny deal is only the beginning, why I know that my publishing journey is going to be a long and fruitful one: because it’s quite literally the only thing I have going for me, and I’m not about to let anything get in the way of that.
Chapter 7
The day that my book announcement goes live is the best day of my life, and I’m not even exaggerating. People often say that. “This is the best day ever!” “I am having the best time!” “This is the best night of our lives!” But see, I have kept a meticulous diary ever since I was twelve, so I know, down to the date, that I have never had a day as marvelous as this one. Easy enough to remember even without the diary entries, honestly, since it all went downhill fast after Haven Lee set her sights on me. The only other contender for best day ever is when I was eight and my mom made her first sale and took me and Dad to Disneyland to celebrate. But even so, I remember that among the ups, there were still downs—my parents taking me on Space Mountain because I’d foolishly told them I loved roller coasters when I didn’t even know what a roller coaster was, and me scream-crying the entire ride until I lost my voice, me crying again when I dropped my churro and Mom refused to get me a new one, my legs feeling like jelly at the end of the day, and Dad carrying me the entire way back to the parking lot, which led to him being bedbound for three days after doing so pulled his back.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful. That Disney trip would remain a core memory of mine as one of the best days a kid could ever dream of. But it wasn’t perfect. Even at the happiest place on earth, reality has a way of sneaking in and reminding you that you’re not, in fact, in a fantasy world. That you still exist very much within the confines of your own limitations.
But the day of my deal announcement, none of those limitations exist. First of all, it’s a true surprise. I haven’t been told when the announcement will happen, and so this morning, I wake up just as on any other and unlock my phone while still tucked up nice and cozy in bed. As usual, Twitter is the first app I open, and as soon as I do, the first thing I see is the fact that that notifications icon has the number 20+ over it. I immediately know, of course. I’d been waiting and waiting for it to happen, and what else was it going to be? I click on the notifications, and they’re all congratulatory comments. I open up Publishers Marketplace and do a search for my name, and sure enough, there it is.
Fern Huang’sThe Happiest of unhappy days, the story of two sisters who have to overcome their differences to unearth the mystery of their parents’ last will, to Lindsay Tillman at Harvest Press, in a two-book deal, for publication in fall 2020, by Poppy Davidson at Davidson Literary Management (world).
A tiny part of me—a speck, really—realizes that as far as deal announcements go, mine is probably as basic as deal announcements can be. There are no bells and whistles; no mention of deal size, which usually means it’s a small deal; no mention of TV or film rights or foreign deals. It’s not so much an announcement as it is a whisper in the wind.
But none of it matters because it’s mine. It’s perfect because it’s mine, and I read it thrice over in bed, tears dripping down my chin, before I finally climb out and brush my teeth. Once I’m done with that, I send a message to Annette, telling her that I’ve woken up with a stomach bug and won’t be able to come in today. She replies two minutes later, telling me she’s disappointed by the last-minute notification. She doesn’t bother telling me she hopes I get well soon, and I am not at all bothered by it.
As I go about making myself coffee and breakfast, I keep picking up my phone to reread the PM announcement. Each time, a shot of pleasure fizzes through me, and I could swear that I’m about to have actual wings sprout out of my shoulder blades, I feel so light and bubbly. Finally, with a hot coffee in one hand and a bowl of cereal in the other, I settle down at my desk. I crop my deal announcement and paste it over a background of a starry night, then I post the image to both Twitter and Instagram with the caption “I am overcome with joy to finally be able to announce my book deal! I am going to be a published author!! #publishing #writingcommunity.”
The likes and comments come in almost immediately. I’m grinning at my computer as I go through the comments and reply to every single one. My follower count goes up in real time. I can’t quite describe the feeling of watching my notifications blow up while I sit here in front of the computer, seeing the little bell icon shiver and light up every couple of minutes and knowing that it’s yet another person reaching out to congratulate me. Me, Fern Huang, outcast, loser, girl who would’ve been most bullied if not for the fact that everyone simply overlooked her.
“Thank you so much!” I type over and over again. When I next check the time, over an hour has gone by, and still the comments continue to pour in, and I’ve forgotten to eat my breakfast. My cereal is all soggy, my coffee long gone cold. I take a quick break to stretch and have a couple of bites of cereal before going back to it. I must reply to every single comment, savoring every comment, counting the number of exclamation marks in each one. Who knew I had so many online friends?
The best part is, there are even comments from actual authors. Not debuts like me or hopefuls like most people in the #writingcommunity, but real-life established authors who have published multiple books. Authors whose books I’ve seen at Barnes and Noble or at Target.
Carla Stevenson:What wonderful news! I’m so happy for you and your book sounds great.
