Chapter 6
Hi Fern! Has your deal been announced yet? is the response I get from the admin of the Facebook group.
Not yet, I reply. My agent is still awaiting the contract. A stab of anxiety, me wondering if this somehow means I am ineligible.
Okay, no worries. Usually we only invite authors whose deals have been announced on PM, but once you get your contract, you can send me a screenshot and I’ll send you an invite.
Thank you so much! I reply.
The contract takes two long, excruciating weeks to arrive, and by the time Poppy forwards it to me for a signature, I have bitten all my nails into ragged stumps.
At night, my dreams have been taken over by nightmares of Poppy calling me to say that Harvest Press has changed its mind about offering me a deal.
Each time my Gmail boops with a new message, I get a mini heart attack.
Could it be Lindsay? She has yet to email me, though Poppy assures me she remains “so excited” to work with me.
I cry again as I sign the contract, and prop my phone up against a tissue box and take a dozen selfies with the document.
My smile is tear filled and earnest, making me look like a huge dork, but I don’t even care.
I post it to Twitter and Insta with the caption “Signing the most important document of my life! #writingcommunity,” and the likes and congratulatory comments pour in almost immediately.
My Twitter account is at over four hundred followers, and my Insta is at over two hundred, now that I have taken to posting something at least once a day.
I’m doing it. I’m really doing it, carving out a space for myself in the publishing industry.
The Facebook debut authors group is amazing.
A dream come true. Well, maybe it’s not a hundred percent what I was expecting, but honestly, I don’t quite know what I was expecting.
I’ve never been part of a debut group, or any other group, really.
I’d thought it would be much bigger, but currently we only have fifty-four members, including yours truly.
But even so, fifty-four is enough members to make me feel slightly overwhelmed.
The first day I get in, I don’t post anything, not even an introductory post. I scroll all the way down to the very first post, one that says: Hi everyone! Introduce yourselves in the comments!
I click on the comments and go through every single one. They all follow the same format.
Jessica Sun: Hiii! I’m Jessica, and my book, The Tides We Fight Against, will be coming out from Rose Chapman Books, Penguin, in Spring 2020.
It’s a story about a mother whose son is diagnosed with autism and how she learns to advocate for him.
Twenty-one likes and three comments, all of them about how good the book sounds and how much they would love to read it.
Elsie Crawford: Hi everyone! My book is called Red is the Darkest Color and is being published from Miota Books, Simon no one will even know about your book, and it’ll likely flop.
Bestsellers do not happen by chance—they happen because money is poured into the marketing and publicity machine.
They’re advertised in every possible channel so that when readers log on to sites like and Goodreads, the first thing they see is a banner for said book.
I scroll through the introductions until I come across one from someone who’s with a non–Big Five house.
Jenna Duncan: Hi! My book is called Fighting Words and it’s coming from Autumn Books in Spring 2020. It’s about two brothers who hate each other and continue on a downward spiral until it ends up with a murder.
Autumn Books is, in fact, not even a midsize house like Harvest Press.
It’s a small press, and if I remember right, their advance sizes start at three figures and go up to mid-four figures, which means—thank god—mine isn’t the smallest deal in the group.
Phew. As soon as I think that, I feel like a total asshole.
Come on, Fern. Comparison is a thief of joy and all that, and plus, I don’t want to be the kind of person who makes others feel small just so I can feel better about myself.
I send a mental apology out into the ether.
Sorry, Jenna. And also, her book sounds genuinely up my alley.
I click on like and, after a moment’s thought, type out: Hi Jenna! Your book sounds insane in the best possible way! I can’t wait to read it.
I spend the next hour alternating between working and checking the Facebook group, noting which people are the chattiest, or the most obnoxious, or the ones who sound like they have the biggest deals, and so on.
My notifications button lights up, and I open it to find that Jenna Duncan has replied to my comment.
Thanks, Fern! That means a lot to me. What’s your book about?
It takes me way too long to compose my reply.
I type: “My book is about . . .” Then my mind goes blank, and I switch back to the Excel sheet I’d been working on for Annette, filling out this month’s expenses.
Five minutes later, I switch back to Facebook.
“About two sisters . . .” I delete what I’ve written and instead type: “Well, funny you should ask, because your book’s about two brothers and mine’s about two sisters!
Lol!” I read over what I’ve written and wince.
Ugh, I sound so weird. I switch back to the Excel sheet and make myself do a bit more work before switching once more to Facebook.
Come on, Fern. You’re good at this. Don’t overthink it.
But, whispers a little voice in the back of my mind, now you have something to lose.
You’re no longer just a hopeful writer in the vast #writingcommunity space on Twitter.
You’re a member of a debut group, a small group of writers whose first books are all coming out in the same year.
They’re your cohort, your peers, your graduating class.
Your second chance. If you mess this one up, too, what’s left for you?
And this time, there is no Haven Lee around for me to put the blame on.
No one is actively trying to sabotage me, to go around warning people away from me.
No excuses. If I bomb this, it’s all on my shoulders.
No curtain for me to hide behind, nothing to shield me from the fact that it’s me, the problem has always been me, and I am foundationally unlikable, that there is something irreparably broken about me, and that’s why I have no real-life friends.
I shake my head. Stop it, I think to myself.
It’s not true. There’s nothing wrong with me.
I am a good person. My only problem is that after years of abuse from Haven, her words have seeped through the pores of my skin, been absorbed into my flesh, and carved themselves painfully, sharply, onto my bones.
I’m a failure. A loser who wasn’t able to protect Dani in the end.
Even now, ten years after graduating from high school, I carry Haven’s words deep in my soul.
I feel the weight of them, I hear their whispers in the dark curves of my inner ear, and they shape everything that I do, down to the smallest acts.
The way that I can never just strike up a casual conversation with the barista or the nice checkout lady at Trader Joe’s, no matter how friendly they’re being.
The way that the handful of times I find myself at social gatherings, I clam up, scuttling to the quietest corner of the room and holding my drink with two hands, aching for someone to come talk to me while at the same time dreading the possibility of having someone talk to me.
And all this I have attributed to Haven, the person who put her elegant fingers around me and squeezed until I was left a misshapen lump marked by her fingers.
But I don’t have to let it continue to shape me, I remind myself.
I am not the sum of my scars. I am so much more than that, and this book deal is proof.
This is what most people don’t understand.
That for many of us writers, our books aren’t just books.
They are created through a process that requires us to slice ourselves open so we can bleed all over the page.
Our books are proof that we exist, our passports to personhood.
And I am good at this, damn it. I may suck at in-person interactions, but online is where I shine.
Bolstered by that thought, I go back to Facebook and type: “My book is about two sisters, one who is seemingly perfect and the other one decidedly not, who discover that upon their parents’ deaths, the will they’re left with is completely not what they expected.
I love that your book is about siblings too, it feels like kismet!
” I don’t give myself any time to second-guess myself before hitting “Post.” Once it’s up, I release my breath and lean back in my chair with a small smile, then I go back to the Excel sheet with renewed focus.
At break time, I go back to Facebook and find that not only has Jenna Duncan replied to my comment but another author, Lisa Garcia, has as well.
Jenna Duncan: Oh wooowww I love the sound of that! I am so intrigued, and yes you’re right, this definitely feels like kismet!