My new book (working title: The Cottage on Fox Hollow Lane) was sent to my editor partway through April. At the start of May, my agent followed up with a gentle nudge, asking if they were interested in the book. Their reply had one extremely encouraging sentence followed by two extremely terrifying sentences:
"Yes, we are very interested. (ENCOURAGING SENTENCE!) However (EVEN THAT WORD IS TERRIFYING!), we are in a bit of a transition here. Our new publisher has been here a week and is adjusting our acquisitions (WHAT ARE THE ODDS THAT THIS ADJUSTMENT WILL WORK TO THE FAVOR OF MIDLIST AUTHORS LIKE ME?). If you could give us a bit longer, I would be grateful."
A "bit" longer will be four weeks tomorrow.
I have been handling the delay in the worst possible way - NOT writing on the new project I thought I was so interested in, NOT reading from a delectable stack of library books, NOT doing anything but check my phone every few minutes in an agony of dread. (To be fair, we also had a delightful extended visit from David's niece, followed immediately by a week-long visit from two granddaughters, a welcome distraction from fretting).
I WANT THIS SO MUCH! As every author in the history of the world feels about the fate of their creations. But this time I want it not just for me, but for my cottage, my sweet cottage on my street filled with wonder and whimsy, which is really the main character in this middle-grade novel. I made use of so many features of my street, working them into the story with staggering cleverness: the purple house, the peace sign house, the mailbox that offers free seeds, the fairy garden, the tiny park at the end of a beckoning path. I love them so - they deserve literary immortality!
For some reason, it's been helpful for me to remember that I didn't love the cottage at first. David and I decided to rent it after a hasty fifteen-minute tour, and once we signed the lease, I actually hated it on our second visit. In my journal I wrote:
"Can I really be happy there? The house is some 100 years old... the built-in bureau in our bedroom has drawers that will tip out and crash to the floor if you open them too far. The upstairs nook that was supposed to be my writing refuge has sloping ceilings so low there is no room for bookcases, so it's really a strange and almost unusable space. Most of the windows look out on the neighbor's house two feet away or on a bare board fence. I can't even imagine being happy there with no beauty at all as a balm for my soul. I would be ashamed to have anyone visit. They'd feel so sorry for me! I feel so sorry for myself right now!"
THIS is what I once wrote about the cottage I now adore!!! The writing nook I once reviled is a paradise!
I used to hate to entertain and now I seek out any opportunity to invite friends to share this enchanted space. One of my writing groups met here and even named themselves "The Cottage Coven" in its honor.
I don't know why this thought is such a helpful one.... that I was initially so wrong about the cottage - that my emotions shifted from shame and despair to pride and joy... Maybe it's just knowing that things all the time can turn out differently from what you think they will and sometimes turn out (vastly!) better. Maybe it's a faith in the magic of the cottage, which changed my heart, translating into the sale of the book about it. (Magic, and the value of believing in magic, is the book's central theme.)
Whatever happens, whether my book will ever be published or not, I'm glad I wrote it. I'm glad I gave the cottage the honor of starring in a story about itself. I can't help believing that the world WILL want this book. Doesn't it HAVE to want this book?
Well, no, it doesn't. The world has been quite clear in the past about refusing to love what I insist that it should. But I love my cottage. My cottage BELONGS in a book. The cottage is IN a book right now, my as yet-unpublished book, every page of which was written in love.
So there, world!
And maybe I'll get some news of its fate (oh, please let it be good news) tomorrow?
