Chapter 7
The day that my book announcement goes live is the best day of my life, and I’m not even exaggerating.
People often say that. “This is the best day ever!” “I am having the best time!” “This is the best night of our lives!” But see, I have kept a meticulous diary ever since I was twelve, so I know, down to the date, that I have never had a day as marvelous as this one.
Easy enough to remember even without the diary entries, honestly, since it all went downhill fast after Haven Lee set her sights on me.
The only other contender for best day ever is when I was eight and my mom made her first sale and took me and Dad to Disneyland to celebrate.
But even so, I remember that among the ups, there were still downs—my parents taking me on Space Mountain because I’d foolishly told them I loved roller coasters when I didn’t even know what a roller coaster was, and me scream-crying the entire ride until I lost my voice, me crying again when I dropped my churro and Mom refused to get me a new one, my legs feeling like jelly at the end of the day, and Dad carrying me the entire way back to the parking lot, which led to him being bedbound for three days after doing so pulled his back.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful. That Disney trip would remain a core memory of mine as one of the best days a kid could ever dream of.
But it wasn’t perfect. Even at the happiest place on earth, reality has a way of sneaking in and reminding you that you’re not, in fact, in a fantasy world.
That you still exist very much within the confines of your own limitations.
A tiny part of me—a speck, really—realizes that as far as deal announcements go, mine is probably as basic as deal announcements can be.
There are no bells and whistles; no mention of deal size, which usually means it’s a small deal; no mention of TV or film rights or foreign deals.
It’s not so much an announcement as it is a whisper in the wind.
But none of it matters because it’s mine.
It’s perfect because it’s mine, and I read it thrice over in bed, tears dripping down my chin, before I finally climb out and brush my teeth.
Once I’m done with that, I send a message to Annette, telling her that I’ve woken up with a stomach bug and won’t be able to come in today.
She replies two minutes later, telling me she’s disappointed by the last-minute notification.
She doesn’t bother telling me she hopes I get well soon, and I am not at all bothered by it.
As I go about making myself coffee and breakfast, I keep picking up my phone to reread the PM announcement.
Each time, a shot of pleasure fizzes through me, and I could swear that I’m about to have actual wings sprout out of my shoulder blades, I feel so light and bubbly.
Finally, with a hot coffee in one hand and a bowl of cereal in the other, I settle down at my desk.
I crop my deal announcement and paste it over a background of a starry night, then I post the image to both Twitter and Instagram with the caption “I am overcome with joy to finally be able to announce my book deal! I am going to be a published author!! #publishing #writingcommunity.”
The likes and comments come in almost immediately.
I’m grinning at my computer as I go through the comments and reply to every single one.
My follower count goes up in real time. I can’t quite describe the feeling of watching my notifications blow up while I sit here in front of the computer, seeing the little bell icon shiver and light up every couple of minutes and knowing that it’s yet another person reaching out to congratulate me.
Me, Fern Huang, outcast, loser, girl who would’ve been most bullied if not for the fact that everyone simply overlooked her.
“Thank you so much!” I type over and over again.
When I next check the time, over an hour has gone by, and still the comments continue to pour in, and I’ve forgotten to eat my breakfast. My cereal is all soggy, my coffee long gone cold.
I take a quick break to stretch and have a couple of bites of cereal before going back to it.
I must reply to every single comment, savoring every comment, counting the number of exclamation marks in each one. Who knew I had so many online friends?
The best part is, there are even comments from actual authors. Not debuts like me or hopefuls like most people in the #writingcommunity, but real-life established authors who have published multiple books. Authors whose books I’ve seen at Barnes and Noble or at Target.
Carla Stevenson: What wonderful news! I’m so happy for you and your book sounds great.
Carla Stevenson has published five books. And here she is, telling me my book sounds great. Oh my god. I swallow a mouthful of tepid coffee and read her comment again and again, wondering how to reply.
“Thank you so much, Carla! I love your books so much!” No, too fangirl.
“This means a lot to hear, especially coming from you! I’m such a big fan!” Still too fangirl. She’s probably inundated by messages like these ones.
In the end, I settle for a generic “Thank you so much, Carla!” I can’t believe I’m calling her by her first name.
Whenever I think of published authors, I think of them in the same way that most people think of celebrities, full names only.
Come to think of it, this is probably true for most people.
You don’t often hear people saying “Oh yeah, I got Stephen’s latest book.
” They say, “I got Stephen King’s latest book.
” So for me to call her Carla instead of Carla Stevenson is yet another beautiful reminder of the fact that I’ve made it.
I’ve successfully separated myself from the masses, elevated past the hordes of hopefuls to become an actual author.
I stay at my computer all the way until past two in the afternoon, when my stomach finally announces it’s tired of my preoccupation and demands proper nutrition.
Reluctantly, I leave the desk, stretching and being surprised by how stiff my back feels.
I’ve been at the computer for seven whole hours, and it’s now 2:00 p.m., and still the likes and comments continue coming.
I’m up to 527 likes on Twitter and 112 on Instagram.
By far the most successful tweet and Instagram post I have ever made.
I eat standing up in the kitchen, my eyes glued to my phone screen as I make myself a sloppy peanut butter sandwich.
Five hundred and forty-one likes on Twitter and two new comments.
I can’t reply and eat at the same time, so I switch out of the notifications screen, go to my home screen instead, and begin scrolling.
My Twitter algorithm has clocked me as a writer, so as always, it pushes writing-related content to me.
There are the usual celebratory posts about getting an agent or finishing a manuscript, and the bleak ones about rejections and rants against “gatekeepers” in traditional publishing.
Today, probably because of my own deal announcement, my eyes automatically pick out the deal announcements.
I skim through them, feeling happy for the writers whose dreams have come true while at the same time also feeling secretly smug that none of their books sound as intriguing as mine.
I know how delusional this sounds, I know.
But isn’t this a secret thought that every author harbors deep down inside?
That their writing is the one that sheds light on a universal truth that every other writer has somehow overlooked, that their characters are the most honest, the most relatable?
Of course, I would never say that out loud.
Helen Nelson of Nelson Books has acquired . . .
. . . the story follows a young woman who . . .
. . . about a magical city that appears only . . .
I like each tweet and congratulate the authors in between bites of sticky PB sandwich. Now that I’m a debut author, I need to get serious about making connections. It pays for me to reach out to my fellow debuts and congratulate them. I continue scrolling.
. . . Haven Michaela Lee’s debut novel, She Asked for It . . .
My finger’s already swiping up, the announcement halfway off my screen, when my mind catches up to what my eyes have seen.
I freeze, every drop of blood in my body clotting, turning jellylike.
No, it must’ve been a mistake. It’s a trick of the light, a soupcon of my imagination, a stuttering of my brain, brought about by too much excitement.
She was on my mind, that’s all. She’s always on my mind, that’s the problem.
The author’s name will turn out to be Hazel Lee or Hayley Lee or something like that, and I will dislike her for no other reason than that her name reminds me too much of Haven’s.
Every instinct in my body begs me not to scroll down, not to go back to the announcement. I shouldn’t even care. I should move on. I should—
My thumb moves of its own accord, swiping down. The announcement returns to the middle of the screen. And there it is, posted by a Twitter account called @HotPublishingNews.
Haven Michaela Lee’s debut She Asked for It, following the media frenzy after a junior associate at a law firm comes forward with an allegation of sexual assault against her employer, a well-respected named partner on the brink of becoming a judge, to Virginia Wallace at Wallace Books, in a nine-house auction, in a major deal, for seven figures, for publication in fall 2020, by Rachel Reed at Reed Literary Management (NA).
Rights also to Red Line Books (UK), at auction, in a major deal; Paper Factory, at auction, in a significant deal (Germany); Boucher, in a pre-empt, in a six-figure deal (France); Rossi Publication, in a pre-empt, in a six-figure deal (Italy); Costa Publishing, at auction, in a six-figure deal (Brazil).