This morning I was thinking about when I sold my first book.
I was on a plane back to New York and there was bad weather and we hovered over DC for an hour before they decided to land us there instead. Then we sat on the plane for another hour. The plane started to smell. There was no food left. It was 10 PM. There were a bunch of high school students on the plane, a class trip, and they started to get noisier and rowdier. I could not find anyone to befriend, and they wouldn’t let us use our phones. I read all of I Am of Charlotte Simmons on that trip, and that book is long.
Finally, they let us off the plane. We had to wait another hour to get our luggage. Then they told us they wouldn’t be putting us up in a hotel for the night. Instead, we’d all be getting on a bus back to New York. (In another hour, naturally.) My phone was nearly dead but I managed to get online long enough to see that my agent had emailed me to let me know that someone had bid on my book. I looked at all the miserable people around me. Even the high school students had stopped talking by then. I had not managed to make a travel buddy, so there was no one to tell.
We all stood in line, in the cold, waiting to get on the bus. I ended up sitting next to an oversized French ophthalmologist, in town for a convention. He barely spoke English, so I could not even make him my last-chance travel buddy and tell him my good news.
I stayed up all night on the bus though, smiling to myself. First book.
Stop being such a precious little princess and start writing again already. If you think you’re so special why don’t you write something special? Don’t waste time griping about minor, irrelevant bullshit that isn’t truly getting in the way of you accomplishing your work. You’re know you’re the only thing getting in the way.
(My pep talks always tend to be sort of hostile.)