A day in the life of...
Lynn Marie Hulsman
The manner in which books are made today differs starkly from half a century ago, starting with the point of acquisition. In those days of face-to-face appointments and the gentleman’s handshake, my initial “virtual” meeting of my editor would have been unimaginable. Even now, the majority of authors physically walk into their editors’ offices to seal deals and sign contracts early in their partnerships. Since I’m in New York and my editor, Charlotte Ledger, lives in London, our initial meeting was a long time in coming.
On the morning of the big meeting, I felt
nervous and out of my element. I’d flown to England to attend The Festival of
Romance in Bedford, at which my editor would be representing my publisher,
HarperImpulse at a romance fair and writer’s conference. I’d arrived in the
town the night before, later than I’d hoped. It had been dark, and my brain had
been exhausted from the strain of negotiating foreign maps, currency, and
customs. Jet-lagged and unfamiliar with both town and event, I missed the first
attraction of the festival: A costumed reading of excerpts from historical
romances that took place in a local art gallery.
Determined to start fresh and get it right,
I woke bright and early. I breakfasted alone, despite the fact that the Park
Hotel’s dining room was filled with festival attendees. Shy and self-conscious,
I ate quickly and was among the first to arrive at The Corn Exchange, the venue
for the authors’ and publishers’ stalls. Many of the HarperImpulse writers already
knew each other, adding to my feelings of awkwardness. On top of that, some
were seasoned in the skills of presenting at these gatherings. I tried to pitch
in as the others set up their table tents, laid out their bookmarks, and
arranged dishes of chocolates to lure in curious romance readers. Feeling very
much an extra wheel, I kept my eye on the door for any sign of my editor. She
would be my lifeline, I hoped. I’d soon feel at home.
Despite the miles between us, I felt I
already knew her on some level. It had been a leap of faith to hand my romance
novel, Christmas at Thornton Hall, over to a stranger for a critique. I
consider it act of intimacy. Charlotte had made it possible for me to do by
giving me permission, in the form of buying my book. Her welcoming letter was
filled with the promise that she already liked what she’d read, and would help
me make it even better. When I received my revisions, I couldn’t bear to open
them for nearly two weeks. When I overcame my fear, I found that I agreed with
99.9% of her suggestions, and was giddy that I’d made such a match in the form
of an editor. How could we not have a warm connection in person?
At last, I saw Charlotte sweep into the
room. Unfortunately for me, she was all business as she approached our table.
She was in problem-solving mode: The shipment of POD books meant for the
display had never arrived.
She greeted me, and was cordial, but it wasn’t exactly the moment of hugging like long-lost sisters I’d dreamed of. Feeling fragile as a newbie author and a fish out of water, I succumbed to my demons, and allowed myself to feel uncomfortable and out of place.
She greeted me, and was cordial, but it wasn’t exactly the moment of hugging like long-lost sisters I’d dreamed of. Feeling fragile as a newbie author and a fish out of water, I succumbed to my demons, and allowed myself to feel uncomfortable and out of place.
