This is promising. I skip the next few paragraphs that continue singing my praises and dart to the end of the email to see if he has accepted my proposal. My optimism is swiped away when I see that the last paragraph begins with an ominous “unfortunately”.
Unfortunately, I feel I owe it to myself and to all the struggles I had to overcome over the years not to take another gamble. This is the first real opportunity I had since writing my novel, and even if I will be eternally grateful to you for vouching my manuscript, I believe traditional publishing is the right way to go for me…
I don’t read the rest as it doesn’t change the outcome of what he said before; he doesn’t want to work with me. Oh hell, his book was not one of my favorites, and it’s not like I expected five yesses. I’ll send his book to Ada with a personal recommendation. I know, I could simply leave the manuscript to hang in unpublished limbo. But I was a reader before I was an editor and I think the publishing industry should be an enabling catalyzer of good books, not a gigantic entrance barrier. I’d much rather see a book published by a competitor than not published at all.
I click on the next email. It starts with the same glorifying tones and to my utter dismay, it ends with the same over-polite refusal of my proposition. Ouch, this was one of my future bestsellers. I click on the third mail and it is another no. Same for the fourth one. Wow, I am deflated. I didn’t expect all of them to accept, but I didn’t expect all of them to refuse either. I let the mouse pointer hover over the last unopened email. I read them from top to bottom of my inbox, so this is actually the first reply I got, and my very favorite author. I sigh and click on the last bold subject line.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Subject: Re: Publishing Proposal for We Fall Together
Joanna,
Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! YES! You have been my favorite editor forever. I have read every single book you have worked on and loved all of them. Nothing would make me happier than working with you. If you are ready to take a chance on me, I am more than ready to take one on you.
Knowing that you loved my manuscript brought tears to my eyes; I cannot wait to meet you in person.
Please let me know what our next steps should be.
Isabel
Whoa! Her mail is a lot shorter and a lot less formal than any of the others. It has the same down to earth, real quality that makes her novel a masterpiece. And she wants to work with me. I am in business!
The realization hits me in a wave of heat. I re-read Isabel’s mail and focus on the last line. The next steps? Right, I have a million things to do. I need to start a business. I’ve never started a business—what do I do? I need to consult the family expert; my brother is like the guru of new businesses. I just need him to fill me in on the basics. The rest I can do on my own. I know publishing inside out, and I am ready to give a huge shake to the whole industry. Big five beware, Price Publishing is moving into town—my own company, evil laugh—Joanna Price is back and she intends to stay.
I forward the other four manuscripts I had selected to Ada with a short recommendation note, type in a quick reply asking Isabel if we can set up a phone meeting for tomorrow, and practically run to the house to talk to my brother.
31
One Year Later
“Are you in front of the computer?” I ask Isabel over the phone.
“Yes!” she confirms. “I’m clicking the refresh button like every other second, but it’s still showing last week’s chart.”
Today is Saturday. This is the first weekend after the publication of her novel. Isabel and I are in our respective homes—well, technically I’m in the office, but since I live on the upper floor they are basically the same—staring at the New York Times Best Sellers list. We’re waiting for the results to be uploaded.
“I know, I’m doing the same,” I tell her, rolling the bead of my seashell necklace between my fingers. The necklace has become my lucky charm, and I wear it whenever I don’t have to be dressed too formally. I smile, thinking about Connor. I wonder what he’s up to. Probably growing corn and milking cows. I miss Mr. Ogre sometimes.
“Joanna, are you still there?”
“Yes, yeah. Sorry, I was lost in thought. I’m sure we’re going to be in the top ten, but I can’t wait to see how high.”
“It’s out, it’s out,” Isabel suddenly shouts in my ears.
I click the refresh button on the webpage and stare at the screen in utter silence.
“Joan, I’m not there,” Isabel says in a small voice after a few seconds. “Not in the middle, not at the bottom. We probably were too optimistic.”
I’m still too shocked to reply.
“But sales are really good. I’m sure we’re going to get there at some point, and a best sellers list is not everything,” she continues.
“Isabel, you’re at number one,” I say in a croaky, dry voice, speaking too fast for anyone to possibly understand me, even if my voice was coming out normal.
“What?” she asks, rightfully confused.
“Um.” I clear my throat to try to steady myself. My pulse is racing and my palms are getting sweaty. I can feel my phone trying to slide out of my hand. I tighten my grip around it. “You are at number one,” I state clearly, as my knuckles go white from the pressure of squeezing the phone so hard in my hand.
“What?” she repeats, incredulous this time.
I can almost picture her eyes traveling all the way to the top of the chart, and when they reach number one I know for sure because she starts howling like a wolf. I have to significantly lower the volume on my headphones to avoid going deaf. As for me, I close my eyes, lean my head on the desk, and cry—a liberating cry. We did it. All the sweat and tears of this past year have not been for nothing.
After about ten minutes of me crying and her squealing, we both come to our senses and sober up a little bit.
Isabel speaks first. “Joan, I can’t even begin to say how grateful I am. You were the only one to believe in me. If it hadn’t been for you I would still be opening rejection letters. This year has been so overwhelming…”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say genuinely. “You were the only one to believe in me, too. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have a company right now. It was a team effort, but mostly it was your book…” My phone beeps. “Isabel, hold on a second. I have another call waiting.”
“Sure,” she says.
I press the switch button and try to sound professional and not like an overemotional grown woman who is crying like a baby. “Joanna Price, Price Publishing.”
“Gemma Clark, junior administrator for the Adawell Literary Prize Foundation.” The caller lets her title hang in the air for a couple of seconds to give me time to register who she is. I do almost immediately, and my tension levels soar to new heights. “I’m calling to inform you that We Fall Together has been selected as a finalist in the fiction category for this year’s ceremony. I will send you a debriefing mail as per the proceedings. I’ll need a confirmation of your and the author’s attendance as soon as possible.”
“Very well,” I manage to say, sounding mildly normal and not too crackly. “I’ll wait for your email and get back to you immediately. Thank you for informing me in advance.”
“No problem, have a good day,” she concludes briskly.
“A good day to you too.” I’m glad I can still manage normal speech functions.
“And congratulations on hitting number one. Bye.” Gemma Clark, junior administrator for the Adawell Literary Prize Foundation, ends the call.
The Adawell Literary Prize! This is too much—am I dreaming? I pinch my forearm. Ouch. No, it’s very real. I remember the last time I did this, wanting to wake up from a nightmare, and I’m so proud to see that in just over a year I have come a long way.
I take another second to breathe and switch back to Isabel. “Isabel? Are you still there?” I ask.
“I am, and I
’m not going to move any time soon. I’m going to stare at the computer all day. I’ve sent my husband out to buy every copy of the Times he can get his hands on.”
“Um, I may need you to move sooner than that and go out shopping.” I can hardly keep the grin out of my words.
“Shopping? Why would I want to go shopping?”
“The other call was from the junior administrator of the Adawell Literary Prize Foundation. We Fall Together is a finalist for fiction!” I proudly announce. It was a wild guess to submit a previously unknown, unpublished author to the most prestigious award in the literary world. You usually had to have at least a couple of bestsellers under your belt before even being considered. But the past year and a half of my life has taught me how to fight against the worst odds and win, so I’d figured I could try with another impossible long shot.
“The Adawell Prize?” Isabel repeats. “Joanna, are you joking?”
I shake my head, and then remember that I am on the phone and say “no” into the microphone.
“But that’s like the Oscars of books.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” I agree. “And since it’s the Oscars, you need an evening gown, and a very expensive one. You’re officially not a penniless writer anymore, so get out of the house and find yourself the most wonderful gown you’ve ever dreamt of. The ceremony is in less than a month.”
“Less than a month?” she screeches. “You’re right, I need to go shopping. Joanna Price, thank you. You are my hero.”
“And you mine.”
As soon as I end the call I lean back on my chair and press both my hands to my forehead to try to commit this day to memory forever. When it begins to hurt, I place my hands on my desk, give my chair a push, and madly twirl around the empty office, shouting my joy to no one.
Like all respectable startups, Price Publishing’s offices aren’t exactly impressive. We didn’t start out in a garage, but the ground floor of the duplex I’m renting in Wicker Park isn’t much of an improvement. Around me there are a grand total of four white desks, a huge wooden table that we use for meetings, and a white modern-looking couch whose utility I’m not sure of since nobody really ever sits on it. The desks are for my employees. Since starting the business last year, I’ve hired a publishing director, a senior commissioning editor, and a publicity manager. I am co-founder and managing director, and we work with many freelancers for art design and other services. My brother is the other co-founder with a minority share, and his financial minions take care of the business side of things.
We Fall Together is the first book we have published, but since signing Isabel I’ve signed seven other previously unpublished authors. We’ll release their novels later this year, so up until this past week it has been all expenses and no income for Price Publishing. I had everything on the line in this book launch. If Isabel’s debut novel bombed, I would have been out of the game before I even started. But it didn’t, and I’ve never been more in than today.
32
Nominees
When my spinning around the office game finally makes me too dizzy to keep going, I shuffle back to my desk and stop in front of the computer to check my emails. In that moment, all the phones in the office go off at once, including my mobile. I do a victory dance to their trilling sounds. Ah, this is what it feels like to be the publisher of a New York Times Best Seller. I answer my mobile first. It’s Matthew.
It takes me a couple of hours to answer all the phone calls and congratulatory messages, and I haven’t even started on emails and social media yet. I’ve been itching all day to check out my inbox for the Adawell Prize debrief, so right now I’ve disconnected all the phones in the office, put my cell on vibrate, and I am ready to concentrate on emails. I click on the portal and see that my inbox is exploding. There are three-hundred fifty-six unread messages in total. I don’t have the time to scroll all of them, not right now, so I type “Gemma Clark” in the search box and patiently wait for my provider to bring up the one message I really need to read. Even if I’m expecting it, when it pops up my heart jolts in my chest as I stare in awe at the bold subject line.
Nominee Notification and Award Ceremony Invitation - Adawell Literary Prize
I click on it. The first part is a general introduction of the award and its history, as if I needed one. After the Nobel Prize for Literature and the Pulitzer, this is the most recognized award in the industry, especially for fiction titles as it concentrates on novels specifically. I skip down to the ceremony information and details.
…This year’s gala dinner and award ceremony will take place at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life…
The Museum Of Natural History! How cool is that? I look at the timing details, download the attached program for the evening, and print it. I forward the email with all the info to Isabel. The invitation is for four people: Isabel plus one, and me plus one. It stings a bit that I am going to be a just one. Yeah, still single at thirty and not really dating anyone. Dating has been out of the question for me. I still feel raw about my marriage even after all these months. In the past year I haven’t had any real interaction with the other sex, besides some more awkward attempts from Michael, Manny’s curator. I’ve been too busy working, and today I’m collecting the fruits of my hard labor, so I am at peace with my choices. I couldn’t have dreamed for a better debut from Isabel. Everything is perfect how it is, and I am positive for the future.
My brain is building one very happy castle in the air right now. I already see myself publishing one bestseller after the other, moving into a proper office space, and growing the company to unexpected greatness. I don’t know why, but I even feel positive about love. With our first book at the number one spot on the New York Times Best Sellers list, the pressure at work will be slightly less compressing. And who knows what could happen in New York? I’m already looking forward to this trip. I could go a couple of days before the gala, maybe even a week, and hang out with Tracy, do some cool New York stuff. She always begged me to go visit her, but when I was with Liam it was hard to plan a trip on my own. Anyway, now that I am fabulously single and officially a career woman, this could be just what I need. I have to call Tracy and let her know right away.
“Guess who’s coming to New York in three weeks?” I ask, beaming when she picks up.
“Who? Katy?” she asks, surprised.
“No, silly, it’s me.”
“You? Are you flying again?”
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Definitely not, no chance in hell.
“No, most likely taking a bus there,” I tell her.
“A bus? But that’s like, how many hours?”
“It’s probably twenty or something like that, but I can read on the bus so it’s not a big deal.”
“Aw, if you say so. How come you’ve finally decided to come visit me? How long are you staying? I have so many things I want to do with you. When did you say you were coming?” Tracy’s enthusiasm finally picks up, and she starts blabbing superfast as she always does when she is excited.
“Isabel’s book has been nominated for the Adawell Prize. I was thinking of staying six or seven days, and I should be there in exactly three weeks. Your address is still the same, right? I could look for a hotel near you…”
“Three weeks, three weeks. Let me check the calendar…” She briefly pauses. “Three weeks is perfect. Adam is away on a business trip, so you are staying with me.”
“Are you sure? That would be wonderful—it could be like a real girl trip!” I squeal, excited. Is it selfish to be happy that her husband is away? I hope not. Adam is really cool and everything, but I’m glad it’s going to be just the two of us. I need some girl time.
“I’m sure. You know I hate being here alone—I turn into a pig. When you know your travel details let me know. I’ll come pick you up when you arrive.”
“Sure, I’ll have a look at the bus schedule and I will let you know ASAP.”
>
“Okay, I need to go plan your visit. I’m so excited. Talk to you later! Bye.”
“Me too. Bye.”
I hang up and take the event program from the printer to check the exact date. I skim through the twenty or so pages and get sidetracked reading. At the end there’s a comprehensive list of all the nominees in the different categories. Mmm, interesting. Let’s see who the competition is. My eyes scan the page, searching for the fiction sub list, and that’s when my heart stops and the walls of my happy castle come crumbling down on me, each stone figuratively hitting my head in the process.
Dark is the Night is one of the other five nominees. Liam’s book, the last one I edited, nonetheless. I had submitted the title for nomination before leaving for the honeymoon. The realization strikes me in all its horror. The Adawell Prize is a biennial event, so it just makes sense that they are awarding this year’s as well as last year’s books. Liam is going to be there. I am going to see him for the first time after, well, our wedding day. How ridiculous is that? He’s going to come with his top model wife, and I’m going to be alone.
I can’t go. I feel the first symptoms of a mild panic attack propagating through my body: quickened pulse, sweating palms, and involuntary shivers. I can’t go. The sole thought makes me sick. All my optimistic I-am-a-career-woman-ready-to-find-love feelings have suddenly vaporized. I have to call Tracy back and let her know I’m not going.
33
On the Side of the Non-Angels
“Now you listen to me, young lady.” Tracy is having none of it.
“Tracy, you’re what…two months older than me? That hardly classifies you as older or wiser,” I tell her.
“Well, apparently I am. How long have you wanted to have one of your books selected for the Adawell Prize?” she insists.
I don’t reply.
“Forever.” She does it for me. “Now, you’re not going to chicken out and watch the thing on TV because Liam is going to be there too. It would be like an actress not going to the Oscars because her ex is there. Did Jen stop going to the Oscars because Brad and Angelina were there?”