I'm not the only person trying to get a book published.
I know. I too was floored when I found this out. There are upwards of 50,000 of us. Turns out I'm not the only one who's stepped off the corporate treadmill to pursue a writing career. (Full disclosure: my last gig was at Citigroup, so the treadmill wasn't actually moving. Or plugged in to the wall.) There are like 290 million of us trying to break into the market. Or is that the population of the US? Whatever. Point is, it's a really big frackin' number and the odds are precisely a googleplex to one that I'll be published. This is what happens when you attend writers' conferences. Where's a can of vanilla frosting when you need it?
I much prefer living in delusion in my living room where I write. There, I'm a smashing success. My book's been published, the characters are adored (so real!), the writing is applauded (so witty!), the concept is lauded (so original!). Oprah can't get enough of me. She delights in the story I tell about why I decided to write my bestseller. When I appear on her show, she revels in the details I share about a sequel. Then she unsheathes her sword, taps me on both shoulders and knights me. Dame Monica Comas, Writer of All That is Smart, Funny and Commercially Viable. The title's a little clunky, yeah, but it's Oprah, so really, I'm not about to quibble. All of this unfolds like a fairy tale on daytime television, where all things wonderful happen like Judge Judy, Judge Alex, Judge Hatchett, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Karen, Judge Mathis, Judge Jeanine Pirro, Judge David Young and Judge Penny. Ok, nevermind. Point being, Oprah loves me.
Some might say this pitch conference I recently went to was timely given that I've come perilously close to slipping into a full-on Walter Mittyesque coma. They'd be right.