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24 February, 2005, 06:11 am
Thursday, February 3, 2005
Aside from a five-minute Monday-night dash to the A&P for milk, I have not left the house since Sunday afternoon. I have worn nothing this week in my waking hours but my favorite ripped jeans, an old sweatshirt, and a ponytail. I have done nothing this week but wake up to a shrill alarm blast in the chilly wee hours, take a quick shower, write from dawn until dusk, then face the dreaded nightly dinner-homework-housework roller coaster. And wait for my agent to call with an offer.
When the phone does ring today around noon, it’s my hometown friend Anthony, now an actor in L.A. I take a much-needed hour’s break to clean the boys’ playroom with the phone pressed to my ear while alternately crying (talking about my mom) and laughing hysterically (about God knows what now, but it was damned funny at the time). He promises to have his mother, back home, make one of her famous pizzas for my parents the next day for dinner. I hang up feeling renewed and once again grateful and blessed by a strong support system of friends.
I’m on a roll, ten pages from tomorrow’s goal, by the time my husband leaves to pick up the boys from school two blocks ...
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24 February, 2005, 06:10 am
Wednesday, February 2
I jump every time the phone rings.
My agent never calls.
Nothing to do but write fifteen pages. And wait.
I hate days like this.
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24 February, 2005, 06:10 am
Tuesday, February 1
My agent forwards an e-mail from my editor. He says that he expects to be calling with an offer the next day. I can write today’s twenty pages in relative peace.
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24 February, 2005, 06:09 am
Monday, January 31
I write twenty pages, and they flow. This is when I really love my work. Somebody asked me once which part of a book is the hardest, the beginning, middle, or end. I told them it was the beginning, because the characters, setting, and plot are still unfamiliar and taking shape. It’s painstaking work to get everybody where they should be, doing what they need to do. But a hundred pages in, and I hit my stride every time. This feels good.
In the afternoon, I contact the school superintendent’s office to see if they’ve done the fall calendar yet. I’m setting up a book tour to promote BRIDE NEEDS GROOM in Vegas in October, and I would like to bring my family along. Before the day is out, I have the fall calendar, four tickets to Vegas, and reservations at Mandalay Bay. When I mention that to my father in an afternoon e-mail, he tells me that he’s retiring the week before the trip. If my mother is up to traveling, they will fly out and accompany us on the tour. That’s the best news I’ve heard in ages.
Did I mention that nobody is more proud of my accomplishments than my parents? I think my father started taking me seriously the ...
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24 February, 2005, 06:09 am
Saturday, January 29, 2005
I sleep in until seven but hit the ground running. First on the agenda: write three pages. I was supposed to write five, but my six-year-old parked himself by the computer needing breakfast that he insisted only Mommy, and not Daddy, was capable of getting for him. It turned out to be cold cereal.
By noon, I am wearing pantyhose and a black Tahari suit I bought last year to wear on a live morning television interview. These are “real” clothes, as opposed to the faded, ripped Levis and tee-shirts I wear almost every waking moment of my life. So much for the image of the glamorous writer. In the banquet room of a local hotel with my friends Kyle and Kathy, I arrange favors and flowers on tables and accept a bloody Mary from a roving waitress. I also arrange childcare, thanks to my friends, for the boys for the day of the Broadway show. It promises to be a good day.
The shower is fun. I make a beeline for the door at 4:10. I am due home to pick up the kids and get them to the library by 4:30. I have been asked to participate in this year’s fundraiser, which consists of a readathon that kicks off today, and weekly programs conducted by local authors
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