By Susan Donovan
It was 6 p.m., Monday, May 14. I was up to my elbows in raw meatloaf mixture. My son was hitting my daughter over the head with his language arts folder. The dog was clawing a hole through the screen door to get to a squirrel. And the phone rang. Upon hearing my son repeat the phrase “Who is this?” with escalating rudeness, I quickly washed my hands—aware that I was likely covered in e-coli—and grabbed for the phone with slippery fingers.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Susan. This is Monique Patterson from St. Martin’s Press. We met at Harper’s Ferry.”
Ka-Thunk! My heart made the sound my old Maytag makes at the end of a spin cycle. I immediately tried to recall which critique partners I’d told about Monique Patterson, and which of them would perpetrate this kind of sick joke.
In the next instant, I realized I recognized her voice. It really was Monique Patterson. I really had met her at the WRW Conference at Harper’s Ferry two weeks before, and I really did send her a partial manuscript soon after. Then it dawned on me that I might be getting “the call.” I responded quite profoundly.
“Yikes,” I said.
Those of you who’ve been through this know how hard it is to hear anything when your blood is roaring through the tiny capillaries in your brain like water over Niagara Falls. As she spoke, I heard snippets of things like, “loved it” and “funny” and then I heard this sentence: “When can I see the rest?”
Well, she had me there, seeing that there was not a whole lot more to see at that time. I chuckled casually, then said, “Yikes.”
Don’t worry. This story has a happy ending. And we all know happy endings are that much sweeter when the protagonist faces impossible odds along the way.
So here is a summary of what happened after the call—in essence, what I did on my summer vacation. (Warning: those with heart conditions may want to skip to the end.)
May 14, 7 p.m.: I telephoned literary agent Pam Hopkins and left this message on her answering machine—"Help me.” (I met her at Harper’s Ferry too, and sent her three partials, including the one Monique got.)
May 15, 10 a.m.: Pam returns my call, tells me she’s not had a chance to read my stuff but she’ll get back to me. (Yeah, right.)
May 16, 9:30 a.m.: She gets back to me! Pam takes me on as a client, immediately assuming the role of attorney, cheerleader, intermediary, and mental health professional. After a nice long chat, we agree that I can have a completed manuscript for Monique by July 30.
May 17, 2 a.m.: I awake in a cold sweat, completely panicked. What the hell had I agreed to? I had about half the book in rough draft form (and I do mean ROUGH) and the rest briefly outlined. That meant producing an additional 300 pages of quality fiction in 79 days, or 3.8 pages a day, while the kids were on summer vacation!
May 18: I buy a laptop. Cost: $1,200.
May 18 through June 11: I take said laptop everywhere—ballet rehearsals, little league games, the swimming pool (but not actually in the water), doctor’s offices (my son broke his arm), the dog groomer’s, and on any car trip that lasts more than a half hour in which I’m not driving.
June 11: Pam tells me St. Martin’s wants to have exclusive rights to my manuscript while they decide if they’re going to buy it. I open my big mouth and say that I’ve got another 100 pages I could send if it would help. She tells me to express mail it to her and she’ll send it on. Little problem: our family is leaving the next day for New York City and I haven’t packed yet. I stay up nearly all night making revisions and copyediting, a process that continues into the next day.
June 12, 11 p.m.: I’m editing the hard copy in the car by overhead light during a thunderstorm on I-95. My husband thinks I’m insane and may very well be hyperventilating.
June 13: I’m in NYC. I insert changes on my laptop that morning, meet a friend for lunch, take my laptop to the Kinko’s on 54th Street to print out the clean version, use the hotel business service to mail the package to Pam. Cost: $104 and three years off my life expectancy.
June 20: I am writing a love scene at a shady picnic table at the community pool, when a child wanders over and reads over my shoulder. “Why is the man biting her?” he asks. Then he tells his mother, and within days everyone in my small town believes I’m writing smut at the pool. And really, “smut” is such a subjective term!
June 30: I have a rough draft of the whole manuscript. It needs a lot of work and I still have two children’s birthday parties to plan.
July 13-16: I’m in Boston for a conference and stay with one of my oldest and dearest friends. I ask her to read the manuscript and she tells me she loves it! I’m ecstatic—until I recall that this is the same woman who loved the headpiece I wore on my wedding day.
July 16-24: I work harder than I ever have in my life. My kids are bored and angry. My husband tries not to complain about the lack of clean clothing, clean dishes—clean anything.
July 24, 6 p.m.: Pam tells me that St. Martin’s has decided to buy my book and they also want whatever I write next. I scream. We go over the details of their offer and I take copious notes with a broken purple crayon on the back of a pizza coupon, which I later cannot decipher. I inform Pam that the manuscript is almost ready. During the call, my daughter demands that we have macaroni and cheese for dinner and my husband lurks in the doorway, waiting to hear the phrase “million-dollar advance.” He gets miffed when I suggest that he just go make the @#%&*! macaroni and cheese and give me a moment’s peace. Later, my family celebrates with champagne, and after the kids are in bed, my husband and I have a bitter argument about family finances. Mmmm . . . this is not exactly how I pictured my big day!
July 25-27: I send Pam the whole manuscript. She sends it to Monique. Monique likes it. We agree on the terms of the contract. It’s official! One itty-bitty snafu: there is already a romance writer using my actual name, Susan Delaney. I have to come up with another name so that it can be part of my legal contract. I start trying to name myself.
July 27-August 2: It’s very hard to name yourself. It’s frightening to see some of the monikers suggested by my mother, husband, relatives, dear friends, and editor. I’m sure the other Susan Delaney is a lovely person, but I’m starting to have violent thoughts about her. I throw a temper tantrum the night of August 1. On August 2, we agree on Susan Donovan. At that point, I would have settled for “Hey You.”
August 13: I receive Monique’s editorial review of the manuscript, in which she tells me she doesn’t like the title. I slam down four Advil with a Heineken chaser. I begin revisions. I try to come up with another title. My deadline is October 1.
August 27, 7:30 a.m.: It’s the first day of school. As I sip my coffee and watch my children walk out to the bus, I realize—with a start—that the summer is over. But do I say to myself, “My goodness! Where did the time go?” Get real. I’ll forever remember each week, each day, and every single smutty page of it.
~~~~~
Susan Donovan lives in Western Maryland and writes contemporary romantic comedy. Though she feared her first book would appear on the shelves as “Whatever” by “Hey You,” Susan is pleased to announce that Knock Me Off My Feet will published by St. Martin’s in December 2002. Her second book, Just Perfect, will be available sometime in 2003.
