A behind the scenes post on the power of an enthusiastic editor and expressing gratitude often and authentically
My book winged its way to three New York editors at Penguin, Crown, and Simon & Schuster. All three got back to me the day the book arrived.
“It’s here.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Jumping in right away.”
This last email was from Kim who was, by far, the most effervescent and continued to be so as she sent email after email.
OH MY GOD, she wrote just two days after receiving it, this is simply amazing. I love it. I mean, really. Love. Love. Love.
And: I have so much work but I cannot stop. I locked myself in the bathroom today just to keep reading.
And finally, less than a week after the manuscript arrived, she called. “It’s staggering how good this book is,” she said, her voice infused with emotion and joy. “I mean it. I read hundreds of books. And this one has everything. It’s funny, sad, poignant, touching, haunting, amazingly well written.”
I sat in my office…the very space I had written the book in over those tireless days, weeks, and months…and stared out the window while Kim went on and on. It was like being in a dream of a moment rather than an actual moment.
Inside my head lived a full-time nag who worked overtime telling me that I was nothing, that I was not trying hard enough, that I was on the brink of losing everything because of something I said or did. That very critic was the reason I now pushed so hard to get published. On and on it went; bad, wrong, stupid, that voice in my head said, but Kim was saying the exact opposite.
“I am literally at a loss as to what to do now,” she said. “It’s that good. It’s the best book I’ve ever read…in my life.”
I hit the mute button, pulled out a box of tissue from my desk drawer, and held wads of the stuff over my eyes to staunch the tears. This wasn’t happening and yet it was happening.
“We’ve got to figure this out,” Kim said. “I need to figure this out. I want this book but you need an agent. Jennifer? Are you there? Hello?”
Shoving the tissues into the trash, I cleared my throat and fumbled for the mute bottom. “Right here,” I said. “I’m right here. I’m so glad you like it.”
“Like it? No. I adore this book. Now look, I am going to make copies of this right now and pass it around to a few readers in the office,” Kim said, unaware of my breakdown and already hustling into her plans for what came next. “My boss needs to see it too, but I already know they are going to love this book BUT we can’t make an offer to you directly. That’s just not done.”
Through the line, I could hear the tapping of a pencil against a desk, or a pen, or maybe her fingernails. It was Kim thinking while talking and this quality endeared her to me that much more because I was the same way. Always in a hurry. Always looking to what came next. But at the same time, at least that day, I wanted to circle back to all the good things Kim had said about my book. I wanted to linger a moment. I wanted to savor. Or maybe, I wanted to enjoy the temporary release from the punishing voice in my head.
Thanks to Kim, I’d been freed from prison. For a moment, I could breathe easy.
“I suppose you could get an attorney but no, you need an agent,” Kim continued. “A good one will advocate for you throughout the entire process…from the contract to promotions. You want one, Jennifer. You need one”
“I’ll get one,” I said then, my voice filled with that typical bravado. But then I looked up at all those rejections pasted to the walls.
How? I wondered. How am I going to do this?
Kim had to go. She needed to make copies and get the book distributed around the office. She needed to garner support. And she also had other manuscripts to edit and work to do for her boss.
We said our goodbyes, me promising to get on the agent thing right away.
Once she was gone, I sat there thinking about my dilemma. What to do? What to do? But I honestly had no ideas. Zero. Zilch. Zip. Instead, I thought about that feeling I had while she spoke so kindly about my work—the freedom from the voice in my head, that momentary calm, and I was infused with gratitude. It was in the air I breathed, in my heart, and like a glow in the room.
The only thing that made sense was to send a gift of some sort. Some offering of my thanks felt vitally important and even necessary.
On the far corner of my desk sat a pile of mail I needed to sort through and recycle. At the bottom was a discarded holiday catalog for a local farm called Harry & David that shipped fruit, chocolates, and nuts around the world in sturdy boxes that arrived looking elegant and lovely…at least according to glossy ad photos.
I pulled the catalog out of the pile and flipped through. Pears, I decided. Pears wrapped in gold foil and delivered fresh from Oregon. That would do just fine.
Your Turn:
Back in the day, you couldn’t do an internet search on the symbolic meaning of pears. You had to go with your gut, but today you can, and I did for this post.
According to Symbolism and Metaphor, pears represent fragility, nobility, grace, childish nature, and friendly relationships.
Pop over to Tree Spirit Wisdom and the meaning is a bit bleaker: “Pear signifies a time of loss, difficulty or separation, but it also asks us to look at our life from a different perspective. Sometimes what we are losing is creating an opportunity that leads us in a healthier more fulfilling direction.”
And just to be thorough, I went to Encylopedia.com to look at “Fruit in Mythology” for a bit more fuel and found this:
Pear In Greek and Roman mythology, pears are sacred to three goddesses: Hera, Aphrodite, and Pomona (pronounced puh-MOH-nuh), an Italian goddess of gardens and harvests.
The ancient Chinese believed that the pear was a symbol of immortality. (Pear trees live for a long time.) In Chinese the word li means both “pear” and “separation,” and for this reason, tradition says that to avoid a separation, friends, and lovers should not divide pears between themselves.
As a writer, we are in the business of symbolic meanings and metaphors. These are our lifeblood. Our reason. And what all stories are about. Symbolic meaning and metaphor don’t stop with the written story either but rather continue into our lives…if we pay attention. And as writers—especially about our lives—isn’t that our job? To pay attention?
Right now, I sit in my cabin by the sea writing this post and ponder the usual distractions in the back of my mind…🧐🧐🧐…Oh, I’ve got to write this post but oh no, is it too hot for the little seedlings I just planted in the garden? Maybe I’ll get a cup of iced coffee? Ugh…the day is slipping away and I have to do my accounting too and answer emails… I just got a text from my kid…
And then BOOM. The story I work on right here, right now, makes a few slight shifts and I’m faced with the heart of the matter which has very little to do with getting published back in 2000 or how Kim liked my book and seemed interested in making an offer. Rather, I learn, via metaphor and symbolism, about the imprisonment of my thinking back then (and now, if I’m honest). There is fragility here, too, a childish nature at work (my book is about a childhood gone wrong) and that the world isn’t as dark as I supposed (the judge in my mind) but that there are friendly relationships to be had (Kim, who was a stranger a week prior but then loved the book). Only watch out because selling my book to Simon & Schuster will mean letting go of that child I wrote about (separation) and potentially entrusting her, or at least her story, to corporate America. Am I ready for that? Is she?
At the end of the day, we are in a process—you and I—of evolving. We are changing at each moment. We are either awake, as I feel at this moment thanks to the symbols and their meanings that have revealed themselves and allowed me to see this experience in a new and fresh way and thus increase in self-awareness. Or, we are asleep as I was when allowing my thoughts to tug at my attention with worries about heat, coffee, and incoming texts.
Hand to heart, unless I’m sitting down with one of my mentors who analyzes dreams, symbols and metaphor is not something I think much about at all. And yet when I am done talking with her I am always filled with wonder about the wellspring of meaning that exists in each moment of my day.
How much time do you take in a given day, or in a given writing session, to examine the symbols and metaphors? A little? A lot? And what might it take to pause in a creative session, look back over the work, make a list of images, and then research a few (pick the ones with the biggest charge…like prison and pears in this story) to dig a little deeper?
No, it’s not natural, or easy. No, it often doesn’t make sense either. And no, it’s usually not super-efficient. But digging like this gives your work texture and depth. Give it a try. See what happens. Post a comment on what you discover. What are the symbols and metaphors that appeared and amazed you in your work?
Until next time, thank you for being with me here at Flight School, a haven for the memoir writer to think, learn, grow and eventually, fly.
~ Jennifer, ❤️
Never, Never, Never Give In ~ Pt. 3
For me, it is the elephant representing my fear and anxiety. I recently found a story I wrote in 1986 about my struggles with agoraphobia, and I used an anvil to represent the heaviness sitting on my chest, but an inanimate object can't talk back. The elephant can have a personality; taunt me; dare me and eventually become the gentle giant I always knew he was.