A Public Thank You

As an author, I am fascinated by the birth of a new idea.  It is such a personal experience.  Each and every time, the idea is different, some more complex than others, some vast in their simplicity, but always, always, visceral in its genesis.

Unfortunately, I have also experienced the death of my creation — not at the beginning of the idea, but at the end, after the book is written and the contract signed.

“Beautiful,” I declared, and its pages fluttered with the freedom of acceptance.  Not only had I already fallen in love with my own work, no easy task for any true writer, but others had as well.  My publisher, my agent, my publicist, the few who had read it before its sanctification of glue and page… loved it too.  My idea and I were no longer alone… we could share with the wider world of libraries, bookstores, and that mystical magical growing world of e-books, e-people who I assume are flesh and blood and not some ether creatures made up of electronic bits and bites that somehow have united and now need “e-books” so they themselves can be entertained.

That bond between the reader’s world and the writer that we all want to connect with… we were going to finally meet… through my novel.

Then it happened.  I got the call.  My publisher had been taken over by a larger company.  My contract was not going to be honored.  There on the phone my creation died.

Noooo… I have the proof… in my hand… I can see it… feel it… its heart still beats… it lives!

But… it died, silent and unknown.  I experienced the different stages of grief.  Denial… impossible, I have a contract. Rage… wait till my lawyers hear about this.  Negotiating… Surely my publisher can do something, they are good people, and they want it published as much as I do.  Then finally acceptance… I looked at the proof, built a lovely fire in the hearth of my log home and called my family.  We shared words from the heart, and I laid it in the fire and watched the cover curl into flames.

A season passed and I had moved on… then a new idea came, but not a new idea… it came slowly in the night and built from within.  My story would rise like a Phoenix from the ashes.  It would live.  I had needed a season of mourning and now I took my idea and went boldly back to the Great River of ‘No’ that runs through the Land of Publishing.

This time, three Publishing Houses wanted it. I studied the offers and chose the newest and most dynamic. http://greygatemedia.com/

First I met Dana, the Director of Operations and then Jason, the General Manager and both impressed me with their ideas and energy.  They asked me to make changes where the other Houses hadn’t.  They recommended brilliant plot ideas and I was all in. I signed.  In time, I met Pam, the Creative Director & Acquisitions Editor who amazed me with her knowledge, insight and artistic talent.

As we grew to know one another, the book began its journey back from the dark angel of death, until yet another heart stopping event.  The company was moving.

A delay only truly understood by me for I had seen death earlier and knew what it looked like, felt like.

E-mail flurries, no, all is good, no worries, be patient, trust, it will be fine, gasp—pant-pant—but you don’t understand I’ve seen death…

September 9th, 2013, my book launched. The Rubicon Effect will live and for its reincarnation, I have Dana, Jason, and especially my friend Pam to thank.

Through the angst, emails, frustration, and exaltation, this journey reminded me of something far more important than a mere book. Something I had written about in my first book, The Singing Bowl, and feel slightly embarrassed to admit that I had misplaced my own idea.

It isn’t about the destination, the launching of a book, but something far more important.  It’s about the relationships formed and friendships made along the journey.  The bonds of trust and anticipation that we all shared. And most importantly, it’s about the laughs.

Grey Gate Media saved my idea and for that there will always be a special bond between writer and publisher that perhaps only we will ever truly understand.

Thank you Pam, Dana, and Jason!


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