There's nothing scarier for an author than getting this e-mail from your agent:
"PW is going to review your book Monday, March 26."
It is Friday, March 23, and I know I am in for the longest weekend of my life.
I e-mail back my agent, "Gulp. If it's good, do they tell you in advance?"
He e-mails me, "Good or bad, you wait."
So I wait, telling myself there's no reason to worry. It's going to be fine. And even if PW hates it, I'm past the stage where one bad review can hurt me.
I remain calm, cool and adult. I go back to my work. Life will go on.
It does, too. Except that every five minutes, I ask my husband, "Do you think they'll like the book?"
"What's not to like?" he says.
I can think of lots of things.
"It will be fine," he says.
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
That keeps me quiet for at least five more minutes, until I ask him again.
Monday morning finally rolls around. I hear a loud silence.
"PW hated the book," I e-mail my agent. "It's so awful everyone is afraid to say anything."
"Publishers don't get their copies until Tuesday or Wednesday," he e-mails back. "It will be fine."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
At three p.m. today my agent called. "I have a copy. I will read it to you now."
He did.
They liked it.
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