I used to get a feeling when I was a little girl waiting for Christmas morning, a three-bean salad of dread, hope, and anticipation. Would Santa bring what I’d asked for? Had I been good that year, or at least, good enough? Would he leave me rocks in the toe of my stocking because I’d shoved my little sister? I mean, she was in my stuff. It was justified, right?
Many years have come and gone between those Christmas mornings and today, yet at this very moment I find myself holding my breath with that same mixture of feelings. This time, I’m waiting for word from my editor. The one who will tell me whether I have it in me to write a breakout novel that might, just might, grab the attention of an agent and then, God willing, a publisher.
The questions are the same now as when I was a kid. Would Santa give me what I ask for? Was my writing good, or at least, good enough? Or would the editor’s words be the rocks in the toe of my stocking that would bring my dreams crashing to the floor?
I’m not sure why I care so much, except that I want to go the traditional publishing route. To me, that’s a measure of success, that a big publishing house might like my work enough to publish it. I’m not looking for a huge payout. Heck, anymore, advances are a thing reserved for the biggest of the big authors like King or Roberts or Higgins. But just being able to say that I’d been published by Random House or Hachette, that’s my dream. And thus, the editor route. Granted, this is through a class I’m taking. Getting the feedback from this editor, and the last two who had a look at the first part of my newest novel, will not get me a publishing deal. It won’t get me an agent, or a contract, or even a reading of the rest of the manuscript. But it gets me one step closer on my path to the Big Five, and so I sit here, hoping once again that Santa will bring me what I want for Christmas.
Mica Flecks 