My Unexpected Book Comes Out in One Week (10/5/21)
If you follow my writing, you most certainly already know that my first book, My Unexpected Life: An International Memoir of Two Pandemics, HIV and COVID-19, comes out next week, on October 5th, 2021. Unless you know me personally, however, you might think, that’s great, but authors publish books all the time, so why all the hype?
It’s true, there have been–are–so many prolific writers: Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood, Octavia Butler, or Agatha Christie. Hell, Bob Woodward seems to write at least one book a year, and I sincerely hope his book about Joe Biden will be titled “Malarky.” I remember hearing Isabel Allende once say that she starts a new book the first of each year. And, according to one analysis of my own text, I have a similar writing style to the terrifically prolific late Sue Grafton. I Is for I’ll Take It.
But theirs is not my story — at least not yet. This is my first book. On the day it comes out, I will be 57 and a half years old. I’d have to produce and publish a new book every few months to catch up with any of these scribes.
Before I started writing this beast of a memoir that nearly consumed me, I knew that writers had to submit their manuscripts many times to find a publisher. But I didn’t quite grasp the frustration of the process. By my count, which is probably low because I quit counting at some point, I unsuccessfully submitted my manuscript at least 35 times.
In early 2020, I’d basically accepted my fate and was looking at hybrid publishers, who will publisher your work if they like it, for a fee, or self-publishing. That was where I was at. I truly believed that if my story was ever going to get out into the world, I’d have to do it on my own. On my dime.
And then COVID hit, and it hit me. Hard. I had a much milder case than many, obvs, or I wouldn’t be writing this. But it did a number on me and continues to dance around to its own tune. But that is another story. I digress. So I kind of forgot about my self-publishing for a while and allowed myself the luxury of journeying down a few too many social media rabbit holes.
One, however, led me to an Instagram post by a small indie press called Northampton House Press. I don’t even remember what the post was, but it was lovely and made me smile. I clicked through and read these words on their website:
“We’re very interested in the work of graduates of accredited Literature, English, or Creative Writing programs who have not yet found a foothold in the marketplace. So, if you’ve completed your degree and have a publication-ready creative nonfiction or novel project or themed novel-in-stories that you haven’t been able to place with a big-house publisher, please query us!”
Hmmm. Why not, I thought. What have I got to loose? I fit that criteria since I’d completed my MFA in 2016.
And so, for the 36th time, or maybe the 63rd, who knows for sure, I again submitted my first 50 pages. I again received the standard email, Thank you for submitting, we look forward to reading…blah blah blah. And I again didn’t think about it much and went on with my life. As a teacher, I had a busy summer in 2020 as I scaled up my skills for online/remote education as quickly as humanly possible.
Just three days later, I received another email, this one asking me to send the full manuscript. This was a good sign, but I still didn’t think about it too much. Six weeks later, however, I received yet another email, this one offering to provide an editor for any revisions and to publish my book. I was at once delighted and taken by surprise. Once my initial shock at this possibility wore off, I reread the letter from the publisher and kept settling on one of the last lines which, ultimately, convinced me my words had finally found their home.
“Regardless of your response to this offer, please accept my personal thanks for all your efforts on behalf of women’s health, around the world.”
Those words told me that they valued the manuscript not just as something they could sell, but as something worth reading. And so it was that in late July of 2020, I signed a contract that has led me down this new path of the escapade we call publishing.
And I thought writing was the hard part. Ha!
Seriously though, the editing process was arduous but necessary and an experience I actually relished. Not like on a hot dog, relish, but nearly as delicious. (And before anyone starts, I know, only mustard belongs on hot dogs. I may be from California but I am not a complete NYC newbie!) Learning how the process works from having a manuscript accepted to reaching this long awaited day–one week before publication–has been a feat. At times frustrating because I’m not as patient as I should be, and at times absolutely joyful like when seeing the gorgeous cover as rendered by the talented Naia Poyer. I can’t wait to share it!
But even this essay does a disservice to the years of work, pain, sweat, and oh so very many tears, that went into this book. In a nutshell, I’d always wanted to write about my travels, but a few events (no spoiler alerts here!) in 2008 pushed me to write a memoir. In early 2009 I took my first class on memoir writing and the rest is history, as they say. Several writing courses, a few 10-day writers workshops, a travel writers conference, a writing coach, an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature and, of utmost importance, the support of fellow writers–my writer tribes, both East Coast and West–helped me stay the course. Oh, and I’m seriously very stubborn, so that helped, too. I didn’t give up. Nearly, but never completely.
Almost 14 years have passed since that first class, which could just as easily be 140 years for all of the things that have occurred in my life, in this country, and in the world. But I kept at it. And, dear reader, if you have a book burning inside of you, you too should keep at it. And as I recently read in a meme (apologies for not knowing who to attribute it to) Write the book you want to read, because you’ll have to read it 75 times. Write your truth. It’s never too late to start. Never.
