super tuesday: the results

“These things must be handled dee-lih-cat-ly,” says the Wicked Witch when she tries to remove the ruby slippers from Dorothy’s feet.

Many of you have emailed me to ask how the meeting went on Tuesday. A couple of you have left comments wanting the same. And I want to tell you in full, explicit, breathy detail, I really do. I want to give you the blow-by-blow, the color commentary, the dizzying rallies, the confounding falls, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. I want nothing as much as to express to you in glittering detail the landscape of my feelings. I want to recount to you bon mots, spilled soup, and flaky crumbs. I want to tilt your heads back like a flock of baby birds and spill into your gullets the wines I drank.

I can’t.

And this feeling of having a log jam of things I want to write about, want desperately to express on the page, to share and therefore to feel relieved of (as well as perhaps relived of), but for some confluence of reasons being unable to do so, is a feeling with which I’m growing infinitely familiar. There are things I want to give up with the pure, liberating freedom of a maidenhead, and I can’t. It would be imprudent, I find. It would be poor judgment, I realize. It would do more harm than good, I know, and so I don’t.

It’s way, way harder than you might imagine. Things left unsaid seethe and boil and froth and turn rank. I tell my friends, but it’s not the same. I don’t really ever unbosom myself of anything unless I write it. Which may be why I’m a writer, but then again it may just be because I’m a pretentious empurpled twit with more solipsism than sense.

As much as I want to spill the entire pot of cannelloni, I must forbear because one of the two editors I met reads this blog. I cannot, then, write with unbridled freedom. It’s not that I don’t like her—I actually do, especially her shoes, which were these 1940’s style pumps of leopard print—it’s more that until the deal is signed,  sealed and delivered, it’s probably best to play these things close to the vest or chest or breast or whatever.

Here’s what I can tell you. They didn’t like the first book I pitched, a book whose title and premise I love, and a book that I had planned out in my head. They both listened patiently; they both tented their fingers; in their foreheads, twin vertical lines signifying concentration appeared; they both asked intelligent questions.

Sitting across from them, I had this feeling that what I was saying was being perceived in the book editor’s version of dogspeak. Instead of hearing, “Blah, blah, blah, bone. Blah, blah, blah, Scruffy. Blah, blah, blah, go out for a walk, blah, blah, Scruffy,” they heard, “Blah, blah, blah, feminism. Blah, blah, blah, strip clubs. Blah, blah, blah, pole-dancing, blah, blah, blah Susan Faludi.” Alas.

So at the end of my relatively articulate speech, they looked at each other and asked, “Who do you see as the audience for this book?” At which point, I knew I’d struck out worse than A-Rod in any post-season game.

So I then turned to book idea #2, which they seemed to love. Their eyes got spaniel bright. If they had tails, they would have wagged.  So I’m going to work on a proposal for it. In an idyllic world, I'll finish it in a month.

That would be the highly edited version of the story. I liked the two editors, I love my ebullient friend who made the lunch possible. I’m excited about the book. And that is all I can say on the matter at present, because somewhere along the line, I actually started to grow up and find an eternal editor who doesn’t need to take inopportune cigarette breaks. I kind of miss my old, smoking editor, the one who clearly drank too much Johnny Walker and had the salty mouth of Walter Winchell. I suppose you do too, but then sometimes things really do need to handled delicately as undergarments.

Comments

[badinfluencegirl]

i think you've told us enough. we know the meeting went fairly well, we know you liked them... the impression is left that they liked you.

more i must say, is none of our business... even though we are curious beyond reason of course.

good luck miss, hope it works out

[Selena Kitt]

Had a feeling that might be the case... will just wait patiently for the big unveiling... :)

[Pete]

CG,
As one who ran a consulting business for 20 years, I can empathize. I would make proposals and then wait. Sometimes, it went smoothly and other times it was as your current situation.
The best of luck and keep on persevering, you deserve it.
Pete

[Karl Friedrich Gauss]

Will be eager to hear more when the time is right. Good luck with the further negotiations and of course, the writing and editing and all that fun stuff.

[Rachel Kramer Bussel]

Not having more to go on, I would throw out to anyone pitching a book that I'm pretty sure "Who do you see as the audience for this book?" is one of the first things any editor or agent is going to ask an author, whether they like the topic or not. Just my two cents - personally (and I'm not in publishing, at least, from that end) I don't think that question is necessarily a dealbreaker.

[lynn]

I'm guessing you mean an internal editor, not an eternal editor?

Best of everything!

[chelsea g]

Actually, I meant both. As I wrote the sentence, I had this picture of my editor looking like J. Prufrock's eternal footman holding his coat and snickering. I guess you had the last laugh.

kissykiss,
chelsea g.

[Padoodles]

Just wanted to tell you that even though I haven't purchased a Penthouse nor any other magazine of it's kind in years, I will certainly be picking up the March issue. I love your words and if they ever come in book form, I will buy that also.