Forget the 100 words, this topic just won't conform. But then, we all have different ideas of home. Here's another picture that lives only in my head.

Coronation

No one sits in that chair anymore. Or the one across from it either. For years, we sat across from each other at home. The two youngest, the two most alike, yet not. He sat where he did because he was left-handed. I sat where I did because mother was left-handed. We squabbled endlessly over dinners at that table. We defended each other fiercely against outsiders, and our oldest brother.

His chair has been empty since 1986. It was empty before that, when he moved out and then got married, started his own family. Empty forever, after. I moved out, too. And the two chairs sat empty across from each other; one a ghost, one only missing in action—gone away with the four winds, coming back with the tides.

Now, my chair is empty, too; I’ve moved over. I’ve assumed the mantle. It does not rest easily on my shoulders; I’m not left-handed.

For my dad, a lot of the "new self" was about names, at least in the family stories. He was a junior, so he needed a nickname. When he was little, he was Butch. When he was a little older, he tried to become Jazz, but it didn't quite work out. Heh.

Twizzlers are yummy! Pure, chewable sugar. Can't go to a movie without 'em.

I have to have the patience to keep rolling the dice.

This is *key*. I had authors who were on manuscripts seven or eight before I bought something from them. Some of it is luck, too, because there will always be more talented writers than there are slots available in any given year. It's a tough, tough business.

Which is not meant to discourage you. It's just that until you're Stephen King or Nora Roberts or whatever, it's always going to be a crapshoot. I'm turning in book #3 in a contract...well, as soon as I can finish it. Does that mean my option material will be bought? Maybe. Maybe more than maybe, since I do, as you know, have a history at Kensington.

But will I sell anything elsewhere? No clue. I've gotten good reviews, I'm hoping sales are decent, I may not be Jane Austen or Jennifer Crusie, but I don't completely suck. Doesn't mean I don't lie awake at night thinking about how I'm going to have copyedit and write cover copy for the rest of my natural life if I don't sell more projects.

Some of it is luck, too, because there will always be more talented writers than there are slots available in any given year.

Or just flat-out more commercial. That's the one that always makes me grind my teeth and, yet? Business.

Does that mean my option material will be bought? Maybe. Maybe more than maybe, since I do, as you know, have a history at Kensington.

Amy, my darling, my sister! Pass that other paddle, will you? Same boatness and all.

Susan, like Amy, I have some history with my house, in this instance St. Martin's. I have an editor who loves the ground I walk on. She bought my first two books - both completely out of her usual realm - because she loves my writing voice. She bought the current one before I had an agent. She's a legend.

Moreover, the sales are good on the first two of this series.

And yet, andyetandyet, the proposal - complete with nearly ten thousand words of book four and solid complete blurbs for books five and six - have been sitting on her desk for five months. The official option clause - buy it or release it back into the wild - is 30 days. I went and ate lunch with her in New York, and not a word. This morning's email from Jenn was the first I'd heard that she had a definite offer in mind. FIVE MONTHS, of turning blue and getting progressively edgier. FIVE MONTHS of not even wanting to work on it, in case the series was orphaned.

It's a crapshoot. We all know it.

You simply never know.

Whoa - Sail, that's a strong, very echoey piece.

That was beautiful, Sail.

Doesn't mean I don't lie awake at night thinking about how I'm going to have copyedit and write cover copy for the rest of my natural life if I don't sell more projects.

You should hear Jennifer Crusie when she's halfway through a book. (I'm on her mailing list.)

Thank you, Deb and Betsy. I've been finding all the other drabbles very thought provoking. This topic keeps gaining momentum, like playing a game of crack the whip. It's building up a lot of energy, so much I'm almost afraid to see the results if we don't stop soon!

Sail, that hurt. I love the title.

You should hear Jennifer Crusie when she's halfway through a book.

Once, when I was a brand-new editor, I mistook her for one of my own authors, of whom I'd only seen a picture. It was at RWA NAtional, I saw J.C. from across the room, walked up and said, "Hi, Mary!" already reaching out to shake hands, only to look at her nametag and wish the floor would open up and swallow me. She was very gracious about it, though. I worship her. I really would read her grocery list.

Pass that other paddle, will you? Same boatness and all.

You bring the deathbombs and I'll bring some decent wine.

I worship her.

She's definitely one of my favorite authors. Nice to know she's a nice person, too!