Two people said I should write a book, after reading my blog, so in my head, that translates into Pulitzer Prize. Never mind that those two people included my mom and Christy, who got back from China with her son the day we left for China and was, at the time, delusional with jet lag.
I basically want to print out my blog and mail it to a publisher and they make a book out of it and it becomes an instant New York Times best seller. Is it considered vain when you fantasize about back-to-back interviews with Letterman and Leno?
My blog stats skyrocketed while we were in China, but then I found out when I got back that my sister was checking our blog like four times a day to see if we had updated. So, basically the same 10 relatives, who always look at my blog, were just really anxious.
My pursuit of writing a book will probably amount to nothing. Probably because I’m pretty lazy and wouldn’t even want to have to print the blog out. Isn’t that what the publisher is for anyway? And even if I did shun my laziness, and self-published, at say, Kinko’s (are they even still around?), and sold a million copies (I mean 10 million) it would probably just amount to me having a big head. I would tell everyone I met that I wrote a book, and that just sounds really cool and impressive and they would all say, “Really? Oh my gosh! That’s so cool. I’ve never known anyone whose written a book…except my Aunt Hilda, who published our family tree. But she just wrote about our family and printed it at Kinko’s, so that doesn’t really count.”
I guess to even have your writing looked at by a publisher, you have to have a literary agent. That sounds really Hollywood snobbish, so I totally want one. Typically you send a query letter to an agent with part of your work, begging them to represent you (I just learned all this on Wikipedia). It’s considered a good sign if you get a rejection letter with a hand-written note saying, “try again”.
Ok, let’s be honest here. If I got a rejection letter, with a hand-written note, or not, I’d be wallowing in a vat of self-pity for a week or 10 years, and I’d believe I was such a stinky writer, that I wouldn’t write again, except in my private journal, where only God could read, and probably my kids when they become teenagers and finally learn to read, and sneak peeks at my writing, and are scarred and horrified for life, by the secret thoughts of their mother. So, I’ll just have to wait until someone discovers me. Anyway, I just read (on Wikipedia) that Jim Nabors was discovered by Andy Griffith, while he was working at a nightclub in L.A. So, that gives me hope.
Update: As of May, 2013 I’m working on two books, one about our adoption experience, with a humor slant and the other book is a secret. I think.