For the last few months, I’ve known I was actually about to become a published author—at least, mentally I did. I had the contract, after all. And the advance check. But it still didn’t seem completely real.
I mean, come on. Who gets a book deal with their very first completed manuscript? It’s one of those things that just doesn’t happen.
Except it does. And now I have the proof.
We were on hour four of a deadly boring road trip to Michigan last weekend when my husband blurted, “what are you going to do when people criticize you for writing romance novels?”
At least that’s what I think he said. I only caught the last half because he started talking about five seconds after I had finally given into a boredom-induced coma.
Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I replied, “Do?”
“Yeah. You know, you’re bound to get people making fun of you and stuff.”***
“Why?”
“Well, because some people look down on romance novels. They think anyone can write one.”
The day started off like any other Monday. I got up twenty minutes late. Discovered I hadn’t remembered to wash any of my jeans. Then proceeded to search all over the house for a set of keys I had hidden on myself during a weekend cleaning frenzy.
By the time I finished sorting through ten garbage bags filled with coffee grounds, half-rotten vegetables, and empty wine bottles (looking for the same set of keys), I was ready to call it a day.
Oh, and did I mention I was feeling a bit under the weather? And knew I had three impossible deadlines to meet in the next three days?
Yep. Monday mornings don’t get much better around here.
When I opened my email and saw a message from Clio, the Harlequin editor I’ve been working with, asking if we could chat to go over more revisions, my reaction was the one you might expect. You know, the one where the writer collapses on the couch and whimpers, “More changes? Why, God? Why?”