When The Call Comes

We often hear stories about writers receiving "the" call. Non-writers may wonder if the process gets easier or old hat. I can attest to the fact that it doesn't.

Two Mondays ago, Calvin and I were getting out of the car at our local Bob Evans restaurant when my cell chimed. It was my agent. "Vonnie? Are you sitting down? I've got some news for you."

I opened the car door and sat on the passenger seat. "Yeah. I am now. What?" My heart pounded in my ears.

"Random House just offered on your paranormal."

"No way!" My gaze flew to my husband's.

"Way!" She began sharing the details, and my mind went numb while I reached for Calvin's hand. She ended the call and I started crying. Through the blubbering, I managed to tell my husband about the contract offer. We shared a long hug as a car slowly drove onto the parking lot, passengers' eyes glued to us as if they'd never seen two retirees hugging in public. Then we walked into Bob Evans and ordered all you can eat pancakes to celebrate.

 

I kept repeating myself as we ate. "I can't believe it. Me and Random House in the same sentence."

 

Three days later, Agent Lady called again. I was still in bed, waiting for the coffee maker to finish brewing our morning coffee. "Vonnie, are you sitting down? I have news to share."

 

"Yeah, kind of..." I yawned.

 

"We have a contract offer on your Christmas novella."

 

I sat straight up in the bed. "No way!"

 

She laughed. "I'm sending emails to the rest of the publishers who have the novella, telling them they have till Monday to decide."

 

Yeah, right. As if any publisher will respond in a few days.

 

Monday morning, Calvin and I were at Bob Evans again--we really should buy stock in that company--when my cell chimed. "Vonnie, are you sitting down? I have good news." All I could do was laugh; her typical question was getting comical. "Harper Collins offered on your Christmas novella. Berkley loved it, but is passing because their schedule is full."

 

I started hyper-ventilating and reached for Calvin's hand. "The" call never looses its thrill...never.

 

I suppose when it does, it's time to stop writing.