I Got My Contracts!

The mailman must’ve thought I had a thing for him, with the way I rushed outside each day to check what he had in his hands for me. For the past two weeks I’ve been waiting for my promised publishing contracts from Walnut Springs Press for Firesetters, and Changes. I can’t help but hear Karen Carpenter singing “Please, Mister Postman” in my head over and over again.

There must be some word today from my boyfriend so far away.

Please, Mister Postman, look and see.

Is there a letter, a letter for me?

I've been standing here waiting, Mr. Postman, oh, so patiently

For just a card or just a letter sayin' he'll be comin' home to me.

Of course not all the lyrics fit my situation. I wasn’t waiting to get a letter from a boyfriend, (my husband frowns on such relationships, you know, with being married and everything) but my heart pounded just as hard in anticipation of a new career he would be bringing me.

(Mister Postman look and see.)

Please, Mister Postman, oh yeah.

(Is there a letter, a letter for me?)

Please, please, Mister Postman, oh yeah.

(You know it's been a long, long time.

Since I heard from that boyfriend of mine.)

So many days have passed me by.

You saw the tears in my eyes.

You wouldn't stop to make me feel better

By leavin' me a card or a letter. *** or a contract!!

My Mister Postman became concerned with me being so weepy when all he could hand me was bills.  Truth be told, WS and I needed to work out a couple of points before the contracts could be sent through the mail. I didn’t mind it coming the old-fashioned way. I took a phone photo of the big manila envelope before taking a favorite letter opener and slicing through the envelope’s edge. The whole experience is embedded in my brain—so cool.

(Mister Postman look and see.)

Please, Mister Postman, oh yeah.

(Is there a letter, a letter for me?)

Please, please, Mister Postman, oh yeah.

(You know it's been a long, long time.

Since I heard from that boyfriend of mine.)

You better wait a minute,

(Wait, wait a minute.)

Oh, you better wait a minute.

(Wait, wait a minute.)

Oh, you better wait a minute, wait a minute.

(Wait a minute.)

Oh you gotta wait, wait.

(Wait, wait.)

When you’re a writer, waiting is practically all we do. It takes time to write a decent story. It takes more time to edit. Then we do research on literary agents or publishers, and write cover letters, and query letters, and, gasp—we write the harder-than-carving-granite synopsis. Most of us know the cruel pain of rejection. I use to keep a file especially for those little, generic gems until I realized they didn’t do anything for my self-esteem. The only good they did do was remind me who not to submit to again. 

Now I will be waiting—again, to see my first book, Firesetters, in print.

I think it’s appropriate to say . . . I can’t wait!!!