“Are you sitting down?” asked my agent.
“Oh good grief, just tell me,” I said, not only not sitting down, but breaking out in goosebumps and hating the sound of my cracking voice. And when had I started wringing my hands?
My scream of triumph just about shattered the library. I didn’t care. I couldn’t. Gotham Books had purchased my book. They’d publish it in 2013.
At that point I had written five chapters in order to sell the memoir. I would only need to write eight more to be done. I laughed when they told me they would give me a year to do it. I had enjoyed the process so much I thought I could probably deliver it a week later if they asked.
And so it was that after calling everyone I knew, I went into the land of literary bliss. The life of the Author, finally with a capital A.
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