It started out to be a fairly normal Sunday. It really did. In fact, it was so normal, I was feeling guilty for not getting dressed and going off to church. But, I had a cold and I didn’t want to rush out into the snow, so I opted not to go to church and spread germs… I know, just an excuse.
So, there I am, sitting in front of the computer working on my WIP (work in progress) and the doorbell rings. Like… The door is just outside my office window. They can see me sitting there writing in my green fleece sweats (not pretty). I peep through the curtains to see if it’s someone that I need to get dressed for… GASP. GASP. GASP. I probably should pass out on the floor so they see me dying and call 911, but… GASP… I figure, I’ve been outed already, so I’ll answer the door. Running my hands through my hair, hoping it isn’t standing on end “bed hair”, I twist the door handle.
“Hi! I texted you but you didn’t respond, so we came on over. Hope you don’t mind.” My *former* friend spoke for the entourage…
He knows I’m from small town America where EVERYONE just drops in and it’s okay because EVERYONE wears oversized (read gigantic) green fleece sweats with cat on the hat all over the front of them, but I now live in the city where it’s customary for people to CALL FIRST. At least, it has been previously.
“Oh, no problem, come on in…” I give him ‘the look’ and smile at the Celebrity Writer** I’m working for and his Assistant standing behind him.
**No, I’m not at liberty to tell you his name, you don’t get to know whose books I ghost write, or edit.
“We knew you were sending out press releases Monday, early, and wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.” The writer speaks… I’m wondering what kind of embarrassing fact I can slip in the press release about him that has nothing to do with my attire at the moment. As I closed the door behind them, I got a glimpse of my half completed pedicure, one foot blue, the other foot red.
His assistant, reaches out a red and white striped Latte cup, topped with whipped cream, “We stopped by the coffee shop. I wouldn’t let these two morons drop in on you without bringing you coffee, at the very least.” She smiled. I suddenly felt a loving kinship for her. “Peppermint Mocha with Sprinkles?” She offered.
“Gingerbread?” I looked at her hopefully. She shook her perky blonde head.
Inside, I slipped behind my desk to hide and pulled up the press releases, hit print, and waited, sipping my Peppermint Mocha with Sprinkles. It was delicious. The trio sat in chairs in my cluttered office, the Celebrity Writer politely stepping over my Grandson’s trike to get to his chair.
“So, did you get a chance to read the book?” He asked, holding the brown bear in the chair under his arm. I had trouble looking at him with the bright red ribbon sticking out under his black suit jacket (he was dressed for church).
“I did. Do you ever write a book where you don’t gore and gut every citizen of Manhatten?”
He waved off my exaggeration, “Occasionally, we gut and gore all those in Jersey too. What’d ya think?”
“I think you need a new topic. Seriously, all those blood and guts horror books are going to give you a reputation.” I answered.
“You realize that’s my genre?” He answers.
“Yeah, you have such a mellow voice, you could write anything, and still get the reader.” I explain.
“You think?” He tips his head, “Like what?”
“Intense mystery with a romantic twist,” I suggest.
“No other writer here!”
“Yeah,” I nod, my hair bobbing and I realize it WAS STANDING STRAIGHT UP.
“(he named an amount rivaling my share of the national debt) first draft, we’ll see what happens from that?”
My hair is bobbing again, vigorously.
He wrote out two checks. One for the publicity I was working on for his most recent blood and guts horror book, and one for the book I’d be co-authoring with him over the next few months. I forgot I was wearing green sweats with cat in the hat all over them and didn’t notice what my hair was doing. Suddenly my toes didn’t matter anymore, and we ended up going out for lunch to celebrate.
Yes, of course, I met them there after I showered, put on real clothes, plastered my hair under a hat and tugged on street shoes!
But… just like that! I went from being a lowly freelance writer/editor/write other stuff to a prepaid author of a commissioned work. And THAT my good friends is what happens when you NEVER give up on your dream. (Oh, and edit books for a Celebrity Writer who wears very expensive black suits and has an assistant that brings you peppermint mocha with sprinkles.)
Sometimes the story is just better shared in print with friends who understand the amount of desire that came before the achievement.
I’m teaching a class for writers, 7 week course, Click Here to Join. You’ll learn how to send out press releases (how to create press worthy happenings that you can write about), how to market your books, where to set up signing events and how to accomplish that task, why you need a platform and how to start the platform building process, and receive all the topical notes that I’ll be sending my celeb writer guy about the book I’m working on for him. Just because that’s an EASY way for me to teach you to write your OWN book.
If you EMAIL – CALL me. Important!!!
PS. I may or may NOT have been wearing a bra when they arrived. Just sayin…