My publisher (specifically one half of the couple who owns the small press I publish my books through) is currently doing some last-minute looking over the novel I had originally wanted to bring with me to San Jose, the one where I made an effort to merge my current style with my previous life’s themes.
My publisher said he was withholding judgment, but was only 30 pages in when I talked to him.
If he finishes reading the book and likes it, then I have succeeded on both counts.
If he doesn’t finish reading in time, it doesn’t mean I haven’t written a good book.
But if this one turns out to be unpublishable, then I’m going to start wondering if this isn’t the start of psychosis because it looks brilliant to me and I don’t see why it wouldn’t be fit to go out next week. As far as I can tell, it’ll be fine with only a few minor edits that I’ve already spotted and made this evening to smooth things along when my publisher gets back to me. But I thought the other book was at least acceptable. Could I be dead wrong twice?
This is a nail biter. After putting the last touches on the manuscript that I could think to make, I lit some incense. I’ve taken to doing this with every fervent request I have, almost like a prayer, and it seems to do something (if nothing else, nag champa has a very soothing aroma).
This time, my only request is to know that I haven’t lost my touch and that I can still write something that they will bend over backwards to print at the last moment like I have in the past. They screw up on schedules, but when I write something worth publishing they at least try to make it up to me. I just hope I still have what they want now that they can afford to be picky and the field is getting more competitive.