queen of cake?
In exactly 28 days—four calendar weeks—on April 14, my book will be available all over the country.
Almost every part of this book was fun: writing it, getting an agent for it, selling it, writing more of it, interviewing, researching (more than just Internet research*, thank you very much), tasting, chewing, eating, reading, photographing. The only things that haven't been fun were the proofreading, the endnotes, and this phase right here.
The books—two copies—came last Thursday morning. I brought them in, opened to the acknowledgments, and saw someone's name. I gasped. Did I spell that right? Forget the fact that I had typed pages of corrections three separate times from dozens of people. I was in a panic.
One of the books immediately fell on the floor beside my chair, between it and the wall. I didn't pick it up until yesterday. And with the exception of the page I opened at my daughter's school the other day to show a teacher who is in it, this is the only time I've opened it since that moment.
It is perfectly normal—not that I'm even close to perfectly normal—for first-time authors (even mere freelancers such as Miller here)—to be freaked. Some people have to go to therapy. It's traumatic. You are really out there, a visible target.
But hey, an agent loved it, a couple of editors loved it, a couple of publishing companies loved it, and my editor and agent both called me when they were finished reading it to say so once again. A couple of friends read it and laughed out loud.
These are the things I will have to remember when the critics decide it wasn't worth their time.
Is it self-indulgent to write a book about cake? Absolutely. What book isn't? What work of art isn't? We create because we are compelled. We choose our subjects because they fascinate us.
We share because we don't want to feel alone.
*Not that there's anything wrong with using the Internet to do research when you are trained to know the good sites from Joe's Shakespeare Korner.
queen of cake?
In exactly 28 days—four calendar weeks—on April 14, my book will be available all over the country.
Almost every part of this book was fun: writing it, getting an agent for it, selling it, writing more of it, interviewing, researching (more than just Internet research*, thank you very much), tasting, chewing, eating, reading, photographing. The only things that haven't been fun were the proofreading, the endnotes, and this phase right here.
The books—two copies—came last Thursday morning. I brought them in, opened to the acknowledgments, and saw someone's name. I gasped. Did I spell that right? Forget the fact that I had typed pages of corrections three separate times from dozens of people. I was in a panic.
One of the books immediately fell on the floor beside my chair, between it and the wall. I didn't pick it up until yesterday. And with the exception of the page I opened at my daughter's school the other day to show a teacher who is in it, this is the only time I've opened it since that moment.
It is perfectly normal—not that I'm even close to perfectly normal—for first-time authors (even mere freelancers such as Miller here)—to be freaked. Some people have to go to therapy. It's traumatic. You are really out there, a visible target.
But hey, an agent loved it, a couple of editors loved it, a couple of publishing companies loved it, and my editor and agent both called me when they were finished reading it to say so once again. A couple of friends read it and laughed out loud.
These are the things I will have to remember when the critics decide it wasn't worth their time.
Is it self-indulgent to write a book about cake? Absolutely. What book isn't? What work of art isn't? We create because we are compelled. We choose our subjects because they fascinate us.
We share because we don't want to feel alone.
*Not that there's anything wrong with using the Internet to do research when you are trained to know the good sites from Joe's Shakespeare Korner.