Sold!

On selling a book to a publisher while selling yourself short

A behind the scenes post on the process of getting a memoir sold, of selling your soul, and seeing all your flaws at the same time. Plus an open mic prompt 🎤

Welcome to Flight School and get ready for your prompt, coming soon:

“Home again. Home again. Jiggity jig.”

This was a song I used to sing to my kids whenever we pulled up to our house, especially after a long journey. And I believe that jaunty tune might have come into being after that three-day roller-coaster trip to New York City where I had met the enthusiastic Kim Kanner at Simon & Schuster, got my butt chewed out by the less enthusiastic editor over at Penguin, and saw my manuscript under the desk of yet another editor at Crown. But despite all odds, I still managed to snag a literary agent and negotiate my own advance in an editorial meeting.

Overall, a good trip. A successful trip. Some might call it a miraculous trip.

But once back through the door, did Steve pat me on the back, take me out to dinner, or hand me a bouquet of roses? Hahahahahahahaha. No. He dropped Spencer into my arms, said, “THANK GOD, you’re back,” and hit the road to work in Seattle, California, and finally Vegas.

“See you Friday,” Steve said.

Spencer, pissed about the time I had been away, hit me a few times in fury and frustration but then clung to me like a monkey. “Mommy!” he said. “My mommy.”

Re-entering my role as wife, mother, and caretaker of home and hearth, I felt…deflated, depressed, and slightly disappointed. I’m not sure why exactly. I knew Steve was more about efficiency and what came next than savoring every tiny accomplishment. And besides, I didn’t officially have a deal yet. No contract had been signed. To him, it was just another day. But life felt so mundane somehow, so quiet. Too quiet.

This changed on Tuesday, though.

I was back from a Mommy and Me art class and in the midst of a toddler rebellion. Spencer sat on his bed with his arms crossed and eyed me with fury. His face was splotchy and red, which happened when he was worn out.

I sat in the doorway as a physical barrier against his leaving the room and attempted what was a fruitless negotiation.

“Lay down and close your eyes. You’re worn out.”

“No,” he said. “No nap! No. No. NO.”

“Fine, don’t sleep,” I said. “Just lay back. Rest a moment. I’ll stay right here. I promise.”

“NO!”

The phone rang.

I had kept it close since coming home and now saw it was a 212 call. New York City.

I lifted a finger to Spence as if to say, “Let’s put a pin in this,” and answered in what I hoped was a professional voice. “Hello, this is Jennifer.”

Through the line came the velvet voice of Anna, one of the literary agents I met at the Meet the Agent’s Luncheon.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back, but I finally had a chance to read what you gave me, and I’m intrigued,” she said. “I love the writing. I love the story so far. I completely understand the interest you’re having. Can you send me the full manuscript?”

Spencer scowled, but I kept my finger up and silently begged: Please. Please. Please don’t lose your shit!

The conversation continued with Anna and I discussing the creative process, craft, and what it took to be a writer. She was an authentic person with an artist’s heart or at least seemed to understand the artist’s situation. I liked Anna at the luncheon and appreciated her languid style, warm smile, and what appeared to be a genuine depth-filled nature. Sadly, she was slow to the party. Rita, as prickly as blackberry cane, had been quick and willing to “screw the deal” together.

A decision had to be made, or so I told myself: Go with the prickly agent who has shown up but doesn’t like your book, or take a chance on the slower agent who says, “I love your writing. I love this story….”

What to do? What to do?

Meanwhile, Spencer’s eyelids drooped, and he tipped over to lay down on his bed.

“I can overnight it to you…um…in an hour or so, but look, I’m going to have an offer on Friday,” I said, voice lower now.

Spencer, holding his bear to his chest, finally fell asleep.

“Can you read it in that time?”

“Hmmm,” Anna said. “I’m not sure. I’ve got a busy week.”

“Can you try?”

“Yes. I’ll do my best.”

Over the next few days, I checked in with Anne twice. Yes, she had received the book; no, she hadn’t read it. The week, she said, was gobbling her up.

Friday at noon, Kim called. Steve was home and played in the backyard with Spencer while I sat on the porch; near enough, Spencer could see me, phone to my ear.

“We want everything. World rights. Audio Rights. Your next book, too!” Kim said in that way of hers, overflowing with enthusiasm.

Spencer explored the lawn with his chubby fingers, digging into the dirt, pulling up roots, and found a roly-poly bug. Steve snapped pictures of this moment of discovery but also looked over me.

“How much?” I asked.

“Exactly what you asked. Forty-five grand. You’ve got a deal, Jennifer. We’re buying your book.”

I burst into tears.

Spencer and Steve both stared, and Kim laughed but also sounded a bit weepy.

“You did a good thing, Jennifer,” Kim said while I struggled to control myself. “We’re going to take good care of your baby.”

With my flannel shirt sleeve, I wiped my eyes. “Kim, I’m so grateful. You have no idea.”

“Now the real work begins,” she said. “We’re drawing up the papers now. Should we send them to Rita?”

No, I should have said. And, Can I have a few more days to let Anna finish her read? The deal won’t go anywhere, right?

But I didn’t. I didn’t believe I even deserved what I was getting at that moment; I thought what was happening was too good for me. I also told myself that the remarkable good fortune of an offer had a time stamp attached, and if I didn’t leap that minute, I’d lose everything.

But looking back, something far more complex and destructive worked inside. I had no sense that I could ask for what I wanted, needed, and deserved, which was an agent who appreciated me and my work. (And I might add that I had no sense I could do the same with a man.) All I’ve wanted throughout my long career as a writer is this very thing…a fine, wise, kind, and supportive literary agent who would be a companion on my literary journey. As of this writing, I’ve had seven agents. All of them were a disaster for one reason or another. (And…to keep the theme going here, I’ve had three husbands and one fiance thus far, too). But it wasn’t the agents' (or the men’s) fault; it was my fault. Again and again, I made the wrong choice based on the same sense of worthlessness.

Is this what happens when a family, in a state of shame, forces their seventeen-year-old daughter to give away her baby? Is it what happens when that baby is adopted into a family with an adoptive father who forces this child into cold showers if she makes any mistakes while caring for her schizophrenic adoptive mother? Is this what happens when this child is sexually violated multiple times, the plaything for whatever powerful man comes along? Or is it beyond the specifics of my personal story and the outgrowth of a larger series of problems within our society where there is no justice for the violation of the innocent, the weak, and the voiceless? Is it about being a woman in a culture that devalues women as much as it devalues her children, the land, and nature itself? Big questions. Huge questions. Important questions.

That day though, I was only getting started with these questions, and the book I was selling to Simon & Schuster had yet opened this life-long quest for meaningful answers.

“Yes. Send them over to Rita,” I said to Kim

Over the line, Kim howled victory.

Steve set the camera next to me on the stairs, signed for me to watch our boy, and hurried into the house. Presumably, to go to the bathroom, I thought, or grab a diaper for Spencer.

While Kim and I continued talking through the details, I heard a cork pop in the kitchen.

Turning, Steve held a single glass and poured champagne into it. For me. To be sure, he had his moments, and this was one of them.

(Go directly to the next post on the Blackbird journey now).

Your Turn 🎤

Embedded in this story is a preliminary teaching on theme. And to get us going, consider the following question:

1. When did you make a left when you should have made a right?

Do a bit of thinking and then some journaling. See what arises.

Every story, memoir included, circulates around a theme that has two dimensions…the personal and the collective. Your book will be about you and your specific circumstances, but also about the larger forces that influenced you: school, government, media, the medical establishment, the military, business, finance, church…and so on.

Can you think in this balanced thematic way when writing your memoir yet? Or are you too deeply lodged in the personal aspects of your story (the minute details included) that you cannot imagine a way to connect it to the larger human experience yet? And what does it mean to be in one place or the other?

In my next posting, I will expand on theme, and until then, will look forward to what you have to say in the comments.

See you soon,

~ Jennifer, 🍎