Our new home town is a book lover’s paradise. We’ve got Powell’s, of course, and Annie Bloom’s. At the Hillsboro farmer’s market I found a used bookstore behind the berry stand, where I scored a crusty Stephen King and two pulp novels. Then there’s the Tigard library, where my son and I received our shiny new cards and made off with such a teetering stack of loot that I could hardly wrestle it into the car. And five minutes from home is a Barnes & Noble, which I investigated last week while Drew was at the other end of the strip mall trying to sort out our new phone numbers.
What’s better than a bookstore. So peaceful, so alluring. All those lovely pages, those uncreased spines lined up on the shelves. Imagine walking into a bookstore and finding your own name, opening a book to see the words you conjured set to print, your whole story laid out between the covers in beautiful font and declarative chapter numbers, filigreed marks at the scene breaks. Wouldn’t it be strange to lurk nearby and see someone pick up your book? Flip it over, read a few pages, carry it to the cash register? What a trip.
As I was nosing through the mystery section, I heard Drew’s voice saying, Hold on a minute, let me find her . . . I zigged through the shelves and he zagged, but eventually we made contact near the cookbooks and he handed me my phone.
It was my agent. It was The Call.
The final offers are in, all decisions made, and my book is SOLD!!! Yes indeed, I kid you not, I was actually in a bookstore when I got the news that Tapestry of Scars will be joining the ranks. It’s been bought in a two-book deal by MIRA, to go out in trade paperback. Do you hear that? My book is sold! So’s the next one! Three cheers for the dark side! Three cheers for the little thriller that could!
And it gets better. I’ve gotten familiar with MIRA during these past few weeks, and I could not be happier to be working with them. Not only because I’ve seen the imprint face-out all over B&N, not only because I like their covers and the range of titles and authors, but because the editors are fired up about my book. My agent said when he called to accept their offer, a squeal of delight could be heard over the phone lines–and if that doesn’t warm a writer’s heart, I don’t know what would. And the folks at Harlequin really know their stuff when it comes to the women’s market. I am in very good hands.
I hung up the phone and wandered back to the fiction aisles, still somewhat dazed by the news. The woman next to me pulled out a book, turned it over, read a couple of pages and walked away with the book in her hand.
Happy, happy day!