As the quintessential, bury-me-in-my-sweats and “Do I have to leave my house for my funeral?” scribbler, I knew this day would come. I wrote something and want to do something with it. Preferably publish it, not burn it. Am I deluding myself? The probability of finding that publisher who will take a chance on my story is… not high. Not that I’m a pessimist. I’m a realist who believes in the inevitability of Murphy’s Law. If you don’t know the difference between these two disparate positions, then you’re not in denial like so many of us.
It’s rather intimidating to realize that completing a novel is only the beginning. I can’t just go outside and yell, “Hey! I’ve finished my book! Where’s my contract?” I mean, I could, but what good would that do besides publicly proving how crazy I am? No ad in the Times is going to culminate in a line of publishers at my door the next day, like all the nannies that come to interview at Jane and Michael’s house in Mary Poppins.
Wanted: a publisher for my fantastic book
Here, I send this choice submission
With a cheery inquisition.
Write me checks; add perks.
Want more? That works.
Let’s talk covers, one that’s witty,
Very sleek and fairly pretty.
Make a million copies; you treat.
Royalties? Let’s meet.
I’ll never be cross or cruel,
When you want to
Publicize my book.
I’ll love you as an author oughta,
If you try to get a movie offer.
If you won’t scold and rudely irritate,
I can write the sequel by the due date.
I won’t make a spectacle
Of you or me;
I’ll even try to follow
Hurry! Sign me!
A delighted Rilla Z
If you’re in your Pursuit-Of-A-Dream bubble right now, don’t forget to tally the wins along the way.