So much for that. I turned down my publisher's offer as it stands. Not gonna do it. Can't talk about fun and happiness the way I've been feeling. All those cool, happy things I thought I'd discovered? Nah. Not so much. Also, I can't figure out how to interview all those people and somehow do justice to their stories. How do I write about my process, my thoughts, my journey, from my heart, and then weave in ten other strangers' stories? I don't see it. I can't, can't, it would be a load of cant. No. I'm in the middle of it all right now -- a vortex of tsuris -- and when I come though it, I'll have a lot to say I'm sure, but now? It's if at first you don't succeed, cry, cry again.
I counter-proposed a book to them and also sent in my historical fiction, about 1905 Russia. My publisher does historical fiction, too, it turns out. But "only two or three a year, and from established writers." That's the Catch-22 of the week. How do you become established? Where does that start?
Feel like the biggest loser since Bill Buckner opened his legs. How can a person like me get a large teenager off to camp on an airplane and then drive around an unknown state, pretending to be an adult? I'm so nervous I feel like puking, but maybe that's cos I was wrong about fudge.