I got my galleys for my new book yesterday. The book still doesn't come out until the fall--these are the copies for booksellers and early reviewers, and also for my mom. But seeing the book look like a book all of a sudden is a terrific thrill, and I was bouncing around the apartment showing them off repeatedly to anyone who would look. Since I live only with my four-year-old and he wasn't home, that left the cats--who looked at me disparagingly, then went back to tending to their individual neuroses.
I wonder if Jane Yolen, who has published 7,894,322 books, bounces around when she gets the galley to book number 7,894,323. I like to think so. I've heard writers be so restrained about the things that happen along the way--when an agent asks to see your book, when you sign with an agent, when an editor wants to take the book to acquisitions, when your pretty galleys show up on your doorstep. Well, you never know what's going to happen, they say. And this is true. You don't. So you might as well let yourself enjoy this stuff. All these little moments--a nice mention somewhere, an encouraging rejection-- just let yourself be happy--not for what it might be, but for what it is.
So, my shiny books and I enjoyed a quiet afternoon alone together, and then finally my boy came home from school. "Look!" I said, showing him the pretty stack. "It's my book!" He smiled appreciatively. "Oh, it's very nice!" he said. Then he looked up at me and added, "When are you going to write another book, Mommy?"