I expected that smashing the “Send” button would feel absolutely climactic and triumphant. Maybe euphoric, even. After years of toiling away on “my book,” and especially after moving my memoir manuscript to the top of my priority list for the last year, this was the moment where I sent her on her way, off to the publishing house, where her near-term fate would be decided.
My actual experience was a little different.
In addition to sending my manuscript to my publishing house of dreams, per my editor’s recommendation, I also sent a revised summary and comps. The summary, I swear, was harder to write than the actual book. How could I cram 82,000 words that encompass my entire life into, like, two paragraphs?! But I did it. And then I had to revise my list of comparable titles. My manuscript changed a lot between drafts, and so I needed to show the publishing house my book’s new spot on the shelf. I found a few motherhood memoirs that were similar in certain ways to mine, sat my ass in the chair at my local library, and texted my friend/accountability partner/life coach Robin to tell her I wasn’t moving until I’d finished my comps and sent everything off.
Bless it and send it on its way!!! She replied.
I finished my last comp, and re-read my summary and comps one final time. I exported them as a Microsoft Word doc, attached the file and my manuscript file to an email. I wrote the email to the editor at the publishing house, keeping it breezy but not entirely playing it cool because, after all, this was a huge moment, and I wanted to be authentic in my inability to play it cool.
And then it was ready. All I had to do was hit “Send.”
I clasped my hands and closed my eyes. In my head, I appealed to my stepdad John and my team of light. Okay, John. Okay, team. This is it. I need your help. Let’s make this happen. Help this manuscript get to where it needs to go, so my book can get out into the world. Please. Thank you, thank you.
I opened my eyes, unclasped my hands, and clicked “Send.”
No confetti. No trumpets. No applause. Just this instant new incarnation of me: a book writer. I wrote a book. I did it.
I closed my laptop, packed up my bag, and headed straight to urgent care.
No emergency. I had some kind of eye infection and needed a quick diagnosis and prescription for antibiotic eye drops. Not exactly the climax I’d envisioned for the moment when I sent in my manuscript, but okay.
I asked the urgent care PA to call my prescription into the Walgreens around the corner, which is where we always get our urgent care scripts filled. A few minutes later, the Walgreens pharmacist told me she had no record of my prescription. I waited a bit. It still didn’t come through.
Seriously?! I thought to myself. On my big day, they send my prescription to the wrong place?
It was 1 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten lunch, so the hanger was setting in. I was about to angry-drive back to urgent care to ask where the F they send my script, when I got a text from CVS.
I didn’t ask for my prescription to go to CVS. Ugh. But at least I knew where it was.
A few minutes later, I was standing in line at a CVS where I had only been once in ten years of living in my town. I had never gotten a prescription filled there. I was only standing in that line because my script had been sent there by accident.
I glanced around. To my right, adult diapers. To my left, eye care. Diagonally in front of me, a rack of books. I skimmed the titles, most of which were either about God or cutting carbs. And then my eye caught a book at the bottom of the rack, and my gut bloomed, and a feeling of great calm washed over me from wonky eye to toe.
Never Give Up. You’re Stronger Than You Think. By John Mason.
My stepdad John’s middle name was Mason. My daughter’s middle name is Mason, in honor of John.
If my eye hadn’t been red and irritated and I hadn’t been standing in line at CVS, I would have burst into grateful sobs. Instead, I snapped a pic and texted a couple of friends, picked up my eyedrops, and went on my way.
Since that beautiful, synchronistic moment, I have been navigating the let down. This phase of “having sent” is hard. I knew it would be. My therapist asked me how I was going to help myself through this time, and I told her I would focus on in-person connections, tackling to-do’s, and allowing myself to rest.
I would give myself a B for my efforts over the last few days. I have made four dates with mom friends. I have gotten each of my gmail tabs under 100. I have made a dent in my hydra’s head of a to-do list. I have slept longer at night and even taken a couple of naps. I am doing all the things. I am probably doing too many of the things, honestly. Hence my B grade. Because it’s harder to float in the vacuum of “having sent” than it is to vacuum and mop the floor and clean out the closets and deep clean the kitchen. It’s harder to let myself rest and feel the “having sent” feelings, so I default to doing too much.
My manuscript—this project I have been dreaming of for decades, my biggest professional life goal, which I have been working on in various incarnations for over five years, and which I have spent the last year prioritizing in full throttle, get ‘er done mode—is now out of my hands. I did the absolute best I could. I did several rounds of edits and rewrites. I asked for feedback from early readers and two professional editors. I dug deep. I started therapy. I dug deeper. I dug deepest. I wrote on days when the words flowed and when they came in painful fits and starts. I put my heart and soul and story into 82,000 words that are now in an editor’s inbox, where their fate will be decided at some point … this month? Next month? In six months? I have no idea.
I have no idea.
But here’s what I know:
I WROTE A BOOK.
I fucking did it. Something I have wanted to do since I started journaling in middle school. I knew I wanted to write a book, but I just didn’t know what my story was. Even when I started writing some of the bits that ended up in my manuscript, I still didn’t know what my story was. I had to live a little more of it. So I did. But I kept writing. Over the last year, the arc of my story took shape. Like a partial rainbow that grows into a full arc if it rains, and then the sun shines, just so.
I feel in my bones, in my soul, that my book is good. I hope—I can’t even play it cool, I desperately hope—that this publishing house wants it (for reasons I hope to be able to explain later, because it will make a hell of a story itself). But whatever happens, I. Wrote. A. Book. And my book will get out into the world the way that it’s meant to.
Smashing “Send” was not a moment heralded by trumpets and confetti canons. It was quiet—I was, after all, at the library—and calm. But perhaps the calm is the triumph. Because I have faith in my story. I have faith that my story will make its way into people’s hands. I have faith that my story will help people, especially women, that they will see themselves in my words, and will feel a lot less alone. I have faith that my story will inspire others to share theirs. I have faith that my story is your story is our story. And I can’t wait to share it with you.
YAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!
I’m very much looking forward to your story being out in the world. Sign me up for pre-orders now! You have accomplished something huge and I can’t wait to see where this journey leads next. Congratulations Jen!