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I’ve ended my book three times. The first in March 2008 after Austin’s Broviac line was removed and the first time he was declared “cancer-free.” Then again in April 2009, after what we now call “the almost relapse.” And finally — or what I thought was finally — in August 2010.
I’m going to share them all here … as long as you promise to still buy the book! (I don’t exactly think I’ll be giving anything away.) But they are informative in their way. Ironic, especially the last one, but hopeful. And hope is what we’ve got right now.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008 1:29 pm
It is not lost on me that tomorrow is the first day of spring. We started this journey in the dog days of summer: a swelteringly humid August in Cleveland. Walking around the air-conditioned hospital in a hoody sweatshirt zipped right up under my neck, hands stuffed into my pockets, not aware of whether it was night or day let alone warm or cool. And then I’d have a chance to walk outside, through that revolving door, into another world complete with its own climate. Lose the sweatshirt, search for sunglasses, wander past the innocent guy selling hotdogs and university employees preparing for the onslaught of new students and their families in the weeks ahead.
Then on through the fall, a vibrant college campus, glorious autumn colors, young people blissfully unaware of the horrors that go on inside that huge building looming over their campus. Our toughest days. Dark, dark days. But it was still warm and we tried to make up for what we’d lost of summer, strolling Austin from the hospital around the pond at the Art Museum, tossing coins in every fountain we passed, wishing, always wishing.
Into winter, the holidays alive with hope and possibility. Twinkling lights and happy wishes reminding us constantly of all we have to be thankful for, of all that others have lost. The final chapter of this story dragging on much like Cleveland winters do. Learning that the Broviac would stay in for extra weeks and possibly months felt like Groundhog Day with a poor outcome—how much more (winter, cancer) can we take? How much more (snow, sickness) will come our way?
But spring is coming, at least according to the calendar. New life, rebirth, blossoming. Austin is going to sprout up like a weed in the months to come, I have no doubt. He will finally outgrow the onesies he’s been wearing since last summer, will learn to swim, will experience the freedom of running naked, will begin to forget.
We have come full circle, through the seasons of the year. We hope beyond hope that our cycle is over. But Mark and I will never forget.
Today was easy. We arrived in pre-op around 8:30 and spent a good stretch of morning just waiting (so much of this has been about just waiting). Austin was a little grouchy because he hadn’t been allowed to eat breakfast, but we managed to distract him with toys and tickles. When we changed him into the hospital gown and removed that carefully wrapped ace bandage from his chest, he nearly pulled the Broviac out all by himself! Then the docs used it one last time to administer propofol making him gleefully oblivious as masked strangers wheeled away from us. We were back in post-op holding him a mere forty minutes later, nothing like the eight-hour surgeries we’re all used to. He sports a regular little band-aid over a tiny hole, no stitches, not much of a scar. Just like that, whoosh—all better.
And then we walked together down that hall leading away from Pediatric Surgery one last time. Feeling lighter, satisfied, content. We stood at the elevator, waiting for our chariot to arrive and whisk us far far away. The elevator stopped, door opened, another family got off as we got on. We didn’t know them and yet we knew them all too well. For one it ends and for another it begins, this cancer roller coaster does not stop for long. Mark shot me a knowing glance and we squeezed hands and vowed once again to never forget:
We were, we are, and we will remain the luckiest.
And then, one year and thirty pages later, this ending:
Mark and I step out on to the back porch and see the boys on the swingset. Braedan is pumping ever higher on the swing, feet reaching for the treetops. Austin is trying yet again to master climbing up the rockwall. He secures one foot and makes it a few inches up, only to lose his balance and slip back down again. But he doesn’t quit, doesn’t give up. He just brushes the wood chips off his hands and tries again. Nothing will keep this kid down.
He climbs, one small step after another, and I start to head in that direction, fearful he may fall too far and get hurt, but Mark pulls me gently by my sleeve. “Let him do it,” he whispers. And he’s right. We’ve held him this far. Let him do it.
And he does. Of course. He makes it to the top, scrambles to his feet and sees us watching. “Awtin do it all by de-self!” he shouts with pride.
So we clap, like normal parents do when their normal kids achieve some normal new skill.
I start again across the yard and Austin zooms down the slide, skidding to stop at the bottom before picking himself back up and bounding through the grass, little feet trying to keep up with his smiling face and head lunging forward, and he dives into my arms.
I swing him around, holding him tight while he laughs. And on one spin, I see Mark, my solid steadfast partner, watching us happily. And on another spin, I see Braedan, my capable, confident child, swinging happily.
We are a family of four. We are alive, intact, together.
And we will be okay.
And finally — I still hope, finally — this one:
I’ve ended this book twice already. Once with the words, “We are the luckiest,” and once with, “We will be okay.” I don’t suppose I can repeat with any credibility that we’re the luckiest. We’re lucky, I’ll give you that, definitely lucky. With all the horribly unlucky things that have happened to us, we’ve once again come out the other side. We have avoided the worst fate. And the second worst fate, kidney failure, which falls quite a few rungs down on the ladder-of-the-unbearable from the first worst fate. I’m optimistic, always hopeful. But not stupid. We’re not the luckiest.
But we will be okay. I know that. We’re not done, I know that too; the future holds many perils yet. His cancer could return, in his kidney or liver or lungs. Next week, next month or next year. Or a secondary cancer could catch us off guard ten years down the road when we’re more worried about our boys, suddenly young men, driving too fast or drinking too much than about shadows and lesions. And then there’s that kidney. We’d always believed he’d lose it during the years of puberty. Now that seems a luxury. It will not last forever, that would be too much to ask, but I do hope he can avoid dialysis entirely, move straight from kidney failure to transplant, only allowed if he’s two years cancer free. That’s the hope I’ll hold onto.
So it’s not over. Maybe we’ll get one good year, maybe five, maybe more. And then we’ll be driving right back down that hill, searching again for a parking spot, surely there’ll be more construction, maybe even a new parking garage? Faces will have changed, more wrinkles, graying hair. People will peer at us and wonder where they’ve seen us before. “Austin Gallagher, bilateral Wilms,” that’s how I’ll introduce us. “We were here back in the 00’s” (is that what we’ll call them?). Somehow that most unnatural thing—a sick child—will become our normal again. But for every moment until that moment, we will live. We will live and we will laugh and we will love a whole heck of a lot. And when that moment arrives, we’ll hunker down and come together and rise up and we’ll get through it. Again.
Because we will be okay.
Well, that was fast. I’ve already received rejections from three of the six agents who offered to review my work following the Pitch Slam. Don’t worry, it’s not quite as bad as it sounds. (It’s not great, mind you, but also not too awful.)
First of all, if I was forced to rank those six agents, I would say that two were my favorites, two were in the middle, and two were at the bottom (one because I just wasn’t excited about her and the other because the work she typically represents didn’t align with mine — as you’ll see below). The first rejection came from one of those bottom two. Following the conference, when I would think through the agents I had met, I would consistently forget her. Like, “Wait,…weren’t there six? Now who was that sixth?” Her rejection came quickly, within a few days of my submission, and was completely generic. The most generic rejection I’ve ever gotten. It addressed me by my full name (Krissy Dietrich Gallagher) as if it had simply been cut and pasted from the submission form. She then went on to say she was not the best agent for “the memoir” (I’ve never not had an agent mention the title of my work) in part because she doesn’t have the time to take on any new clients right now. Really? Then why did she go to a pitch slam where she’d meet some 400 eager new writers? My mom got the exact same rejection from her on the exact same day (except her’s referred to “the young adult fiction”). Huh, oh well on that one.
The next rejection came from one of my middle ground agents, a very friendly woman who I enjoyed speaking to quite a bit. Her’s was at least nice (and she mentioned the actual title of my book!), saying that she read my pages “with great interest and enjoyed my honest admissions and engaging narrative style.” But ultimately, she didn’t “fall in love” with the project as much as she had hoped. So that one was definitely a disappointment.
And the third, … oh now this one is classic. First, let me give you some background of how this industry works. Memoir falls into a category somewhere between fiction and non-fiction. It is, of course, non-fiction because it is actually true (at least it’s supposed to be true — just ask James Frey!). But agents want it submitted like fiction. Not submitted as if it were fiction, but submitted in the same manner that one submits fiction. Here’s the deal: If you’re a fiction writer, you need to complete your entire work before submitting it. An agency and publishing house will represent you if the story and the writing are good, so they need to actually read the manuscript. Non-fiction adheres to a completely different set of rules. If I wanted to write a book on how women should invest their money, I would write a non-fiction proposal before writing an actual book, and that proposal would describe my outline, my credentials (I better know something about investing … and women!), my platform (hopefully I have some articles printed in boring money magazines or I’ve been interviewed on this topic for the news), etc etc. Same thing if I want to write a book on the history of wine production in France. I need to present to an agent and publisher why I’m the best person to write that book (and it can’t just be because I like wine … and France!), especially if I expect them to pay me to go there and “research” for a year.
So, anyway, even though memoir is technically non-fiction, most agents want it submitted like fiction: Write the book first, make sure it’s really good and then send out sample pages. The idea is that it’s the writing and the story that will sell that book, not the credentials or platform of the author. So, this one agent I pitched to in New York, who mostly reps non-fiction, asked me send in a non-fiction book proposal. Of course, I’ve never written a book proposal before. So, after putting it off as long as I could, I finally pounded one out, including market data on cancer memoirs versus mommy memoirs (“momoirs”), hunting down website statistics for St. Baldrick’s and Carepages, listing the speeches I’ve given over the years to various organizations about Austin’s cancer. I finally sent it in yesterday only to find this message in my inbox this morning: “Krissy (my name again)…It was lovely to meet you and I appreciate the chance to read this. I have, however, decided to stop representing memoirs as I just couldn’t land them. I wish you all the best …”
But, hey, I’m a glass-half-full kind of gal, so at least I have three agents left. And my top two among them. Plus, now I have a non-fiction proposal in case anyone ever wants one!
Tuesday was the six month mark since I sent out my samples to the agents I met at the Writer’s Digest Pitch Slam. Of those five, I got three rejections, one remarkably personal and complimentary and two standard form letters. There was one woman who simply refused to respond, despite two separate follow-up inquiries. And then there’s the last, my holdout, and favorite of the bunch.
She’s the one who, according to online lore, takes an awful long time to get back to queries. The agency website says to resubmit after six months, so that is what I did late Tuesday night, six months to the day since I sent my original, with a friendly, “I know you’re really busy, but …” letter.
No word yet, but now I’m more nervous than ever. As tedious as all these months of waiting are, at least they hold hope. That whisper of hope is always there, simmering below the surface: this is gonna be The One, she’s gonna ask to read the entire manuscript and then love it and then sign up to represent me and then sell the book to a major publishing house — oooh, maybe there’ll be a bidding war and a six-figure advance, and then it’s interviews and New York Times bestseller lists and book signings and then, oh yeah, someone is obviously gonna want to make it into a big Hollywood production, and then ….
Or at least the beginning part: She’ll like it enough to ask to read the rest! That’s all I really want at this point — for something to read the whole damn thing.
If this doesn’t pan out, then I’ll have to take a long hard look at my work and possibly revamp the beginning, which is of course the hardest part to change. If someone asked me to rework ten or twenty pages in the middle, I could do it in a flash. But the opening sentences are just so so hard. But I’m afraid it’s falling a little flat and that it takes too long for me to really get my groove. Oh, I don’t know, hopefully this won’t be an issue at all. Hopefully, I’ll get that positive response and then, and then, and then …. You know the rest.
So what is happening with that book of mine, you ask. Well . . . nothing much.
There are still two agents from the Pitch Slam who I haven’t heard back from, one of whom I’ve pretty much given up on. From what I’ve read of her online, she usually responds fairly quickly and in one interview, she welcomed follow-up emails if she hadn’t responded to a query within five or six weeks. So I sent her one a few weeks ago and still, nothing. She’s the one I mentioned who I would have been shocked if she’d asked to read my full manuscript, so I guess it’s to be excepted. Still, it seems extraordinarily rude to ask to read someone’s work and then to even give them the courtesy of a rejection. I mean, it’s only a measly form letter — it would take thirty seconds to paste it into the body of an email and hit send. Oh well.
The other agent who still hasn’t responded happens to be my favorite of the five. Her agency’s website says right up front that it takes them up to three months to review initial submissions and only to follow-up if we haven’t heard back in six months. Six months! And I thought I’d already done my share of waiting.
That agency did have a very thorough submission form that asked for all sorts of information, from the last book I read to the author who’s most inspired my writing to a single line, one sentence, culled from my submitted pages (not easy!). They also required a synopsis, which is harder than writing a full-length manuscript! Really, in the past, I’ve steered clear of agents who request a synopsis just because I didn’t want to have to write one. This is a two-page summary of the entire book, devoid of any exposition — just straight up, “This happens, then that happens, blah blah blah.” Ugh. Double ugh.
But I do trust that, by requesting all that information, and by warning ahead of time how long it takes her to review it all, that she really will indeed review it all, and that she really will indeed respond. I’ve also read some interviews with writers who’ve signed with her and they all say that she’s much much quicker to respond once she officially represents you and that she spends most of her work day acting on behalf of her current clients and their books, which is a good sign.
So, more waiting and more hoping. If there are only a few things I’ve learned since Austin was diagnosed with cancer, it’s how to wait and how to hope.
There are a lot of ways to get rejected. Some of those ways feel a bit better than others (say I, tentatively embracing my emerging role as something of an expert on rejection).
I got another rejection last week. Yes, the third of five.
But let me tell you, compared to the generic form letter rejections I’ve received thus far, this one felt pretty darn good.
Lines like, “I read this with great interest and your talent is obvious.” Oh my, thank you. “I thought the writing was truly engaging, and the pacing and structure were excellent.” This is good to hear because the structure of the first part of the book is made up of a combination of blog posts and private journal-like entries, peppered with select responses from readers. I’m comfortable with the format and can’t quite imagine changing it (at least not at this point) but have been aware that someone might ask me to. So the fact that she liked it is a good sign.
And then, “This was a very compelling read for me, but (but, but, big ol BUT) ultimately, I worry that there is no place for this memoir in trade publishing.” Ohhhh . . . . ouch. The words “too medical” found their way in there too. (Well, to her credit — and mine –, she said she was afraid a publisher would think it was too medical, not that she thought so.)
She admitted that this was more about her (in)ability to move my manuscript through the stages of publication due to her inexperience, which was actually a concern of mine about her from the very beginning. She happens to be all of about 25 years old and obviously hasn’t established herself in the industry yet. A new agent like that can push another young adult vampire novel through the process because there’s a template for that — it gets done every day. But a medical memoir, which nobody seems to want these days (due in part to the fact that every single person who’s had cancer or whose parent, spouse, child, friend or pet has had cancer is told they should “write a book about it”), requires someone with enough connections that they can pick up the phone and call their friend, who happens to be a respected editor at a respectable publishing house, and say, “Listen, I know nobody wants another medical memoir but trust me, this one’s good.” She admitted that she doesn’t have the ability to do that but reassured me that someone else out there does and that she’s “sure they’ll scoop it right up.”
Well, I hope so.
After five excruciating weeks of waiting, I have received two rejections from the five literary agents who requested my work at the Pitch Slam. They were both completely generic rejection emails, clearly the form letter variety they send to everyone: “After careful consideration, I’ve decided this is not something I would like to pursue. Best of luck in your future endeavors. Blah blah blah.”
I’m actually not devastated by either one (something that has been a bit surprising to me). Neither one of them was my top choice. In fact, the first rejection came from an agent who was added at the last minute (she hadn’t preregistered for the Pitch Slam) and I had therefore done no prior research on her, like I had for all the others I pitched to. I simply stood in her line because those precious two hours were coming to a close and there were only two people in front of me. She seemed interested enough in my story, but did mention how last year when her parents both had cancer, she “learned about all these kids with cancer. That’s really something people should know!” It struck me as odd, like did she really not know that children got cancer? That would be rather difficult unless you were living under a rock somewhere.
But the real kicker for her (or the real kick against me) was that when I returned home and did finally research her agency, I read that she does not want any books dealing with dogs, cats, blogs or journals. Well, I am not an animal person, but the first (and longest) section of my book does follow a blog-like format. It is a series of updates, drawn from the original Carepage, interspersed with more personal journal-like entries and select responses from readers. So, had I known that ahead of time, I never would have pitched to her anyway.
I did like the other agent I was rejected by, but she wasn’t one of the ones who I walked away from that fateful Saturday feeling the most hopeful. Two of the remaining three I feel very hopeful about, while the other would shock me if she requested a full. I had really liked what I’d read about her ahead of time, especially this: “Understanding why characters make the hard choices is also integral to building them into a truthful entity—and if your protagonist isn’t worrying over any difficult choices, that’s a problem.” We obviously had some difficult choices to worry over! But she also said she doesn’t want “misery-driven” memoir and even though I would argue that my story is driven by joy and hope and love, I think it still falls into the dreaded misery-driven category.
None of this is very surprising. A lot of agents request partial reads at events like Pitch Slams simply because they’re nice and feel bad rejecting people face to face (that is made so much easier by email!). I read somewhere that after last year’s event, four writers out of more than 300 attendees actually found representation from the Pitch Slam. Plus I keep reading article after article and blog post after blog post about how no publishing houses want memoirs that aren’t written by someone famous (i.e., Sarah Palin) or at least with an established writing career (i.e., Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love who was already a professional writer). It’s very frustrating of course, but I seem to have written my little book at the wrong time in the publishing industry.
So now I wait and wait and wait some more. And hope for at least one measly agent who wants to read my full manuscript. Just one! One, one, one (okay, maybe two . . .).
The rest of the details: The entire conference was good, with many interesting sessions (and some really boring ones). There was a mix of presentations on writing as a craft (how to build and develop your characters) and writing as a business (how to build and develop an online following). I find the former more enjoyable, even though right now it’s the latter that is probably more important.
There was an enormous focus on using social media and blogging (can’t tell you how many times I heard the words “Search Engine Optimization” — perhaps I should go back to my hot titles?) and on the changing face of the book industry given new technologies (e-books, print-on-demand and so on). It was during these sessions that I found myself (and many of those around me) pulling out the draft of my pitch for endless last minute revising and rehearsing.
I had an opportunity on Friday afternoon to practice my pitch with one of the session presenters, the book world’s expert on pitches and queries. He really helped me hone in on the central theme of my work. I had been planning on opening with one of those poetic lines that sounds really lovely but doesn’t actually give the hard facts an agent needs.
My original first line: The Wrong Side of the Window is, in essence, a love story: a great big public declaration of a mother’s love for her sick son, her healthy son, her husband, the family, friends and wide community that sustains one family through its darkest hours.
The first line I ended up using: The Wrong Side of the Window is an 83,000 word memoir about mothering through adversity.
A bit more to the point, yes? I also originally introduced Austin as “the hero” of the book until he said that, because it’s a memoir, the hero can only be me. So I omitted Austin entirely and spoke solely of myself.
But I did change a few words to say that the book “focused on” Austin, without using the word hero at all. Many of the agents really responded to the Braedan parts (with lots of vigorous head nodding): There’s wide-eyed and gentle Braedan, struggling to find his role in the drama that stars his little brother, whom he adores and resents with equal force.
I had been advised by above-mentioned expert to leave the word “suffering” out of my last line, which I tried to do late Friday night and throughout the Saturday morning sessions before I finally decided it belonged there, because, hello, I can’t just go and lie.
Sad but not depressing and hopeful but not sappy, this story is an intimate look at suffering and loving and really, really living.
After my introductory monologue, there were 90 seconds for discussion, during which time the agents inevitably asked how Austin was doing (and I often joked that they had to read my pages to find out). The other topics ranged from questions about my previous writing experience to “I can’t wait to read more about the Braedan and Austin relationship.”
All in all, I left there feeling listened to, respected and validated (never a bad thing). I will send out my pages tomorrow and expect to hear back from them within four to six weeks. The hearing back part is another huge bonus of going to a conference like this and having a face-to-face meeting. Often, due to the high number of blind submissions an agent receives each week, they say that if you don’t hear back from them within a specified amount of time, assume it’s a no. I think that these agents will provide a response, even if it’s a rejection, because it’s material they actually requested. And, if it is a rejection, they will hopefully take a few minutes to say why. And if it’s not a rejection, then they’ll ask to read the full manuscript, which could take another eight weeks. And after that, they would either offer to represent you (or, hopefully, me!) or not.
Then a whole other process starts during which they need to sell the manuscript to a publishing house who actually publishes the book, but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves!
Everything else about the weekend was great too. The fellow writers at the conference were extremely interesting to talk with and very supportive of one another’s work. I am sure to have lots of new friends on Facebook this week! My mom and I are excellent travel partners because we like all the same things — same kind of food (must include cheese), same amount of walking (lots), same style of walking (fast), same way to spend any free moment (shopping). So, after finishing our long Pitch Day, we walked 3.6 miles in our newly purchased and miraculously comfortable boots to meet up with old friends at a fabulous little Italian place and eat delicious food and drink fat glasses of wine before walking another 3.6 miles back to our hotel. And we never once turned on the hotel room TV.
I love that I can be equally as excited to go away somewhere as I am to come home again — definitely a good sign. And speaking of good signs … the weekend was fabulous.
I am exhausted so I’ll skip all the extraneous details (for now at least) and get to the thing you (and I) care about most: the Pitch Slam. What a fascinating and exhilarating and nerve-wracking process! Picture more than four hundred aspiring authors lined up outside a hotel ballroom at 2:50 and then, when the doors are ceremoniously opened at 3:15, the crowd surges forward and everyone forms chaotic lines behind the agents of their choice, who are seated two to a table around the periphery of room. And then you wait, lips moving silently as you nervously rehearse your “lines,” eying the competition, strategically deciding which line to stand in next.
I pitched to seven agents in the two hours, which (from what I gleaned from my 400 new best friends) was on the higher end. Five of them requested material, usually the first 10 to 30 pages (one said, “Oh just send me the whole thing” — gulp!). I’m happy with that response, although it was far from unique. Most attendees I spoke with were asked to send work to most of the agents they pitched to (my mom had an impressive six requests out of six!). I think the request itself is not an indication of how well they really liked your pitch (I honestly think the agents were sometimes just being nice to people), but the victory lies in the fact that there will now be five people actually reading my work. And that for me has been the biggest hurdle, given the somewhat “unappetizing” nature of what I write. I mean, few people walk into the bookstore and exclaim, “Oh look! A memoir about a baby who gets cancer — can’t wait to read it!”
I felt like I received some very personal and thoughtful reactions, including one excellent rejection. The first agent I pitched to, who was starred as number one on my list, got tears in her eyes and said she has learned through experience that she simply cannot represent work of this nature because she gets too emotionally caught up in the characters and is no longer able to be objective about the manuscript. That “No” felt as good as some of my “Yeses.”
I did have one other woman who passed, saying that cancer memoirs are just too hard to sell. I wanted to say, “Ugh, I know, everyone who’s ever been sick thinks they should write a book … but this one is GOOD,” but that sort of self-promotion is not looked upon very highly (to say the least).
But all the others seemed genuinely interested (often interrupting to ask if Austin was okay) and excited to hear more. So my next few days will include rewriting a query letter (much easier now that I have a pitch I like) and polishing up those first ten to thirty pages (again) and emailing them off in the hopes that one (or more) agents will like what they read.
And then, who knows, we’ll see … but mission number one is definitely accomplished.
Alright, let’s see if I’m ready.
Cape, tights, superpowers? Check. (Thank you, Chris, for reminding me to pack those.)
Well-worded oral pitch that clocks in at 87 seconds (thanks to some careful revisions) and that makes me giddy with pride? Check.
Well-researched list of agents, ranked according to best match for my work? Check.
Carefully chosen outfits that are both comfortable enough to wear all day and yet appropriately stylish? (Hey, you gotta look good.) Check.
Three-plus years of hard work, hopes and dreams? Che….
Wait a minute. The product of my three-plus years of hard work, hopes and dreams (and blood, sweat and tears) is staying behind. It’s here, this family, this house, this home. Two mostly healthy, mostly happy, remarkably normal children and one super-strong marriage.
Three days until the Writers’ Digest Conference in New York City. And I am so excited.
My mom and I fly out Friday morning and the event starts that afternoon. There will be a variety of keynote speakers throughout the three days, as well as many sessions to choose from, covering everything from how to write an effective query letter to what to do after you’ve landed an agent. The highlight, of course, comes Saturday afternoon when we have two hours to sign up with any of fifty agents for the Pitch Slam. I’ve been carefully researching the agents attending to find those who represent memoir and who seem like they’d be a good match for me. I don’t have my final list yet (that’s what I really should be doing right now) but I think I’ll be pitching to about twenty.
Most importantly, I have a pitch that I really like (and that, if you’re lucky and if I’m feeling extra brave, I might just post on here). It runs a tiny bit long (100 seconds) but I don’t imagine they’ll cut me off right at 90 seconds. The second minute-and-a-half of each meeting is dedicated to questions and feedback, so I suppose (hope?) we can just lose ten seconds out of that. I can always race through what I want to say but much of the impact lies in well-placed (but brief!) pauses for emphasis.
I’ve decided to use the title The Wrong Side of the Window, at least for the purposes of this event. It doesn’t need a subtitle or an explanation and I’d much rather use my allotted time to sell the book itself and not its title. Besides, my original subtitle for Whoosh was One Ordinary Family, One Extraordinary Year, which — call me crazy — loses a bit of its flow when revised to One Ordinary Family, Three-and-a-Quarter Extraordinary Years!
So, that’s it. I’m super super excited. Appropriately nervous too, but mostly just excited.