Loads of people dream of becoming celebrated authors, seeing their books prominently displayed in bookstores and airports across the globe. It’s the fantasy equivalent of moving to Hollywood and becoming the next Julia Roberts, Scarlett Johansen, or Jennifer Lawrence; something that only happens for one person out of every hundred thousand hopefuls.
After writing my first book, I queried a slew of fancy New York City agents—only the best for me and my future literary stardom.
After receiving enough rejection letters to wallpaper my powder room (distastefully), I hooked someone. My agent submitted my romcom masterpiece to ten major publishers and one of them bit. Sadly, before my editor signed on the dotted line, she switched genres and moved onto something less mainstream like eastern religion or astrophysics—either way, it was as far away from chick-lit as you could get. After months of excitement, my dream was dashed.
Despondent, I put my publishing pursuits on hold to try to get on with the business of starting a family. Four miscarriages and two babies later, I was ready to get back at it when my husband was diagnosed with stage-four tonsil cancer. Once we got him stabilized, I had a new drive to see my work in print. Life was short and I resolved to achieve my goal sooner rather than later. For me that meant self-publishing.
Read the rest of the story from Whitney Dineen at Women Writers, Women’s Books