A couple of months ago, I sat and stood and walked with my cell phone glued to my side. It had been a big week of meetings, of waiting to hear if a certain publishing company had said yes to my book.
So, I turned the volume all the way up on the phone – God forbid I head downstairs to change a load of laundry and not hear its normal vibrating self. And, although I don’t normally check email on it, I refreshed the email icon approximately every three minutes, just in case news had come in from my agent.
One day went by. Then two, and finally three.
I kept repeating the old adage, No news is good news, no news is good news, to myself, whilst simultaneously banging my head on the kitchen counter, wondering why I ever thought putting myself out there in the world and leaving a secure job and potentially writing a book was a good idea in the first place.
But three days in, after I’d begun a thorough search of job possibilities on Linked In, and thrown all hopes and dreams of traditional publishing out the window, the phone rang. It was my agent.
And, almost instantaneously, my kid proceeded to stand up on his chair at the dining room table, and vomit the contents of Taco Thursday all over the hardwood floors.
I looked at my phone, and I looked at my vomitron of a child: surely this was a sign. They’d said no. They’d puked my great idea out, its contents splayed all over the floor of their publishing house, as I’d just seen not more than four feet in front of me.
The HBH (Hot Black Husband) scooped up our boy and rushed him to the bathroom for some TLC with the toilet and the bath. I picked up my phone, ran into the kitchen, and grabbed an armful of cleaning supplies.
“Hello?!” I screamed into the phone, knowing full well whose voice was on the other end.
“Well, Cara, we heard back from Zondervan,” Rachelle replied, her voice flat and monotone, void of emotion. I knew it then: the deal hadn’t gone through. I hadn’t tried to get my hopes up, but really, I’d gotten my hopes up just a little, all the same. I was done waiting, though; done not knowing, done feeling like I was in limbo when it came to shopping my book around.
I sprayed Lysol on vomit.
“They said yes!” she yelled, suddenly jubilant and full of happy agent emotion.
I screamed into the phone, and jumped up and down, trying my hardest to avoid real, live chunks of dinner that now covered every inch of the dining room.
“You’re kidding me!” I said back to her.
And so our conversation went: the conversation of a publishing house saying yes to my book and story, saying yes to bigger conversations that we all need to hear and need to be having with one another about the experience of race.
Friends, I am delighted to finally, publicly announce the acquisition of my first book: a memoir of racial healing, justice, history, faith and love, and the God whose love transcends it all.
So, are things really going to look that different around here? Probably not. And absolutely, yes. I’ve got an amazing line up of authors and writers ready to meet you every Tuesday. I’ve still got thoughts that need to come out in 800-word form, instead of 60,000 word form. And I’ve got a monthly newsletter you need to read right around the first of every month. In that way, keep on stopping by. Keep checking out the publications page, and keep sending your recommendations both for featured Tuesday authors and for churches and faith-based organizations you think might need to hear from a preacher lady like me.
In the meantime, all email subscribers will be entered to win a gift basket from my girl, Oprah (and O Magazine). So, sign up to receive weekly blog posts and the monthly newsletter if you haven’t already, then wait to hear your name called on Monday, July 31st.
Otherwise, celebrate with us!
I sure am glad to call you a BPF (Blog Post Friend). Be sure to enter your name and email address to receive emails, so you can be entered to win the O Magazine gift basket. Otherwise, cheers!0