Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I walk around, drinking it all in. I’m so nervous it’s making me feel sick, but I can’t ignore how awesome it feels to be here as an author. I’ve always kind of wanted to write a book since I was a little girl, but I started to get serious about it four years ago when I turned twenty. I ended up using all my elective credits in college for creative writing classes, which I loved. I even switched my minor to English at the last minute. Sure, none of it helped my already useless psychology undergrad degree, but those classes were huge in pushing me to write and feel more confident.
In four years, I’ve always felt like I was at the little author kid table–on the outside looking in toward the real big boys. But now I’m almost done with my book. I’m actually attending a real life author thing. I’m locked and loaded with an elevator pitch, so maybe I’ll even convince someone at Landmark or Gray Wolfe to pick up my book today. There are a few other smaller publishing houses here, too, but the big two would be the real dream.
It’s all enough to make me temporarily forget how worried I am about things with Vaughn.
For a while, I do forget. I just sink into the moment and feel like I’m walking on clouds. There are desks set up for authors who write for Landmark and Gray Wolfe. I spot a few recognizable faces and internally fangirl. Okay, I do a little more than internally fangirl. I actually spend close to two hours waiting in lines to meet authors, collect signed books, and stuff them into my bag like a hamster filling its cheeks with goodies.
In my defense, I still have at least one eye on the prize at all times. I’m scanning the crowds for Vaughn. Maybe part of me doesn’t even want to spot him yet.
I get caught up in a few random conversations with other authors and hopeful authors. I realize just how many people here haven’t finished a book yet. They’ve written short stories or they have an idea they are planning to write some day. It just reminds me how big of a deal it is that I actually finished. I did the thing. I wrote the book, and it’s right there on my laptop, just waiting to be edited and pushed out into the world.
It has a sort of mystical quality to it. Writing a novel feels like catching the whale or successfully performing magic. Not that I have ever desired to catch a whale, of course. It’s just the kind of thing people aspire towards but never actually do. Actually, I’m not sure anybody really dreams about catching whales, but the point is that writing a book is only a dream for so many people. A fancy, sparkly dream full of glitter and unicorns that the world tries very hard to make people like me give up–to grow up and move on to more realistic, mature things. But I never did. It was always there and I always knew I was going to keep chasing it until I made it happen.
And now here I am.
I have the freaking book and it is so close to done.
I hadn’t even told Vaughn how close I was to finishing. He’d seemed so let down and disappointed with me when I told him I was scrapping the original draft last year. It was like I’d proved to him that I was never actually going to write the book. Now I can prove him wrong.
I break out of line with my much heavier bag in tow. I start looking for Vaughn with both eyes now. I’ve been a little distracted on the Gray Wolfe side of things because they publish most of my favorite authors. I move through the convention center and find the area where there’s more Landmark people.
It’s a big room with tables scattered around and lines of people waiting to talk to authors, agents, and representatives from Landmark. I wander into line to buy a book and get it signed by one of my favorite fantasy authors. I’m glancing idly around the room when I do a double take. I think I see Vaughn, but it doesn’t make sense, because he’s holding hands with a beautiful woman.
Their backs are to me, but I’m pretty sure I know him from behind by now. I tilt my head a little, forehead creasing as I stare at him, then his hand in hers.
I drift out of line as it feels like the world shudders beneath my feet. My thumb is hooked under the strap of my bag. My jaw is hanging open just a little. The thump of my heart gets louder with each pulse in my ears.