Mitch checked the mail yesterday. He ran to the kitchen, exclaiming, “Mo! You’ve got mail from the publisher!” I panicked. I started to sweat, my thoughts raced, and then I ignored it. “I’m not opening it now.” I may never open it. Mitch grabbed it from me and threatened to open it himself. My eyes watered. Then I ran into the bathroom, closed the door, and hid like a scared kitten.They weren’t going to want it. But what if they did?
I read the letter, or at least most of it. They love the idea of my book, but they don’t really publish these types of memoir and self-help. Any way you slice it, self-help is just a terrible name for a genre. I cringe. Is that what this is? Is that what I am?
Here’s my annoyed face.
A handwritten note in the corner of the letter from the editor soothes me a little. He says although they can’t publish my work, he thinks it’s wonderful that I’ve chosen to write my story down and that he believes this should “find a home somewhere”. I guess that’s good. Mitch says it’s great and gives me a hug.
I emailed my editor to tell her about it, and she laughed. She thought it was a great letter to get back from an editor and she thinks I should keep it for posterity. That was also a good sign.I guess I won’t give up, just yet.
