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One hundred twenty-five and counting.
Apr. 28th, 2009 08:39 amOne hundred twenty-five days. That's all that remains between me, in this moment, as I'm typing this, and me, standing in a book store, holding a copy of Rosemary and Rue in my hands. Which will probably be shaking. I'm intending to creep quietly into a large chain store where nobody knows me, pay retail for the first copy I can find, and then go sit in a bathroom and cry for a good long while. And then I will dry my face and go back to the business of dealing with a release, IE, "being perky and accessible," "signing books and being charming," and "not reading my Amazon reviews." (For serious. I have been forbidden to read my Amazon reviews, and I support this commandment. I'm going to be crazy enough that week without the extra feedback.)
One hundred twenty-five days. I received my page proofs in the mail on Saturday, and have been dilligently crawling through them with a red pen, hunting and killing any errors that I find. If it makes it through the proofs, it's my fault. So I have to hunt and kill like a velociraptor trying to feed her young, aware that any mistakes made in the prehistoric jungle could lead to being eaten by a larger predator. Okay, so maybe it's not that bad. I mean, we're not at "burst into tears during the Hellboy II credits because I just figured out a continuity error" levels of high-strung yet, and we may not get there ever. But it's definitely very brain-and-stress-intensive, as well as being a fascinating exercise in reviewing my own text.
One hundred twenty-five days. My cover flats came in yesterday's mail. Actual, printed covers with my actual, printed cover image and my actual, printed back-cover text. My name and the title of the book are both embossed. After I finished crying, I started to laugh hysterically, because—without my having any actual input or control over the graphic design—I have wound up with a first novel whose title is presented in large, embossed, eye-catching, pumpkin-fucker orange lettering. Did you need proof that I control the universe? Because I actually got proof that I control the universe. And the proof is awesome.
One hundred twenty-five days. My to-do lists are starting to look like an elaborate piece of conditional theoretical math, because, of course, they fall down every time I need to wait for somebody to get back to me. "If X has not happened, Y; if X has happened, Z" is becoming a distressingly common entry. (And if you're wondering why I'm doing lists that far out, you haven't checked my schedule recently.) I'm trying to make things as unconditional as I possibly can, simply for the sake of my own sanity. And Kate's sanity. And Vixy's sanity. And The Agent's sanity. And the sanity of anybody else who has to deal with me between now and the end of September.
One hundred twenty-five days. That's when you get to meet Toby properly and in print for the very first time.
I'm so excited I could scream.
One hundred twenty-five days. I received my page proofs in the mail on Saturday, and have been dilligently crawling through them with a red pen, hunting and killing any errors that I find. If it makes it through the proofs, it's my fault. So I have to hunt and kill like a velociraptor trying to feed her young, aware that any mistakes made in the prehistoric jungle could lead to being eaten by a larger predator. Okay, so maybe it's not that bad. I mean, we're not at "burst into tears during the Hellboy II credits because I just figured out a continuity error" levels of high-strung yet, and we may not get there ever. But it's definitely very brain-and-stress-intensive, as well as being a fascinating exercise in reviewing my own text.
One hundred twenty-five days. My cover flats came in yesterday's mail. Actual, printed covers with my actual, printed cover image and my actual, printed back-cover text. My name and the title of the book are both embossed. After I finished crying, I started to laugh hysterically, because—without my having any actual input or control over the graphic design—I have wound up with a first novel whose title is presented in large, embossed, eye-catching, pumpkin-fucker orange lettering. Did you need proof that I control the universe? Because I actually got proof that I control the universe. And the proof is awesome.
One hundred twenty-five days. My to-do lists are starting to look like an elaborate piece of conditional theoretical math, because, of course, they fall down every time I need to wait for somebody to get back to me. "If X has not happened, Y; if X has happened, Z" is becoming a distressingly common entry. (And if you're wondering why I'm doing lists that far out, you haven't checked my schedule recently.) I'm trying to make things as unconditional as I possibly can, simply for the sake of my own sanity. And Kate's sanity. And Vixy's sanity. And The Agent's sanity. And the sanity of anybody else who has to deal with me between now and the end of September.
One hundred twenty-five days. That's when you get to meet Toby properly and in print for the very first time.
I'm so excited I could scream.
