My dream of writing a book is coming true. Not surprisingly, the whole thing took much longer than I thought it would to get done -- not the book but the contract. Even though it's after midnight, I consider it Tuesday night, not Wednesday morning, so "today" I got my copy of the contract, signed by all parties. I have a real, legitimate publisher. And a real, legitimate agent. Wow.
I still don't want to reveal specifics of the book here. I will at least say it's about baby boomers. I have some people to notify and talk to, so I'll do that and then get back here with details. But...I want to ruminate on it for a moment.
Sometimes dreams get fulfilled in ways not anticipated. When I fantasized about writing a book when I was growing up, it was a novel. That imaginary book had intriguing made-up characters. And juicy conversations and/or sex scenes (not that I thought about sex scenes when I was writing my own endings to the Nancy Drew mysteries in junior high school). And twisty, turny plots. Sigh.
The real book I'll be writing, years and years and years after I imagined it would happen, is a nonfiction book, a serious book for professionals. Given that I detest writing endlessly descriptive scenes, and that I have been a journalist, i.e., writing nonfiction, for the past 23 years, this is probably best. It's not that I can't still write fiction at some point, but my first book will be nonfiction.
Yes, I envision myself writing more than one book. But, of course, first I have to write this one. I can't wait to begin!
