In 1989, I decided that what I really wanted from this life was to be an author. I blame Reading Rainbow.
In March of 2015, I wrote a book. It was not my first attempt at writing a book, but it was the first time I had ever finished one.
In August of 2015, I submitted said book to nine publishers. A week later, I had signed a publishing contract. I actually received the email whilst sitting in repose beneath the industrial dryer at the salon I have used since God was a boy. I screamed and threw my cell phone across the room, and then I cried in a very unladylike fashion and scared the shit out of an elderly woman getting a permanent (in South Carolina, it’s perfectly acceptable to A-Still get perms, and B-To call them “permanents”).
In September of 2015, I saw my book cover for the first time. Cue the flood of tears. Again, I blame Reading Rainbow for all of this.
Yesterday, I received the list of suggested edits from my publisher. They were relatively minor. I feel good about that. My high school English teacher would probably feel good about that, too.
Today, I made those edits and sent the manuscript back. And now we’re one step closer to making this my new reality.
Cue the tears.