Today, while I was at work, my book contract arrived at my apartment. I was fifty blocks away and couldn’t see for myself until after 5 o’clock. E called the moment it was dropped it off. He described the contract, read me choice bits. My name is there. The name of the novel. A plot summary. For ages 9-14. My wonderful editor’s name listed at the bottom of every page. The contract was many paragraphs, much longer (and on longer paper) than the work-for-hire “agreements” I am used to.
Soon, the more he read from it, the more my head was spinning.
Wait, I said. It’s really real?
It’s real, he said.
To be waiting this long for something to happen and then to have it be happening… I came home, sat at the table, paged through the contract, was quiet for a long while. E said I was acting strange.
It’s real, is what I was thinking. I’m not sure if I truly believed it until today.