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I’m terrified my publisher—and my agent, for that matter—will think I’m some unprofessional novice who doesn’t take her business seriously. Not only am I missing another deadline. I’m delivering the news less than forty-eight hours before the date. I mean, who does that? I know better.
I just didn’t know I’d catch the flu and be totally laid out like this.
As the hours pass, my anger morphs. Mean little thoughts start to swirl and swoop inside the hot magma that fills my congested head. Irrational, rage-y thoughts like, this wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t volunteer to coach a soccer team of germy four-year-olds. Or this wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t constantly spreading myself so thin.
By lunchtime, I call uncle. I get on the phone with my agent and proceed to have a totally unprofessional breakdown as I tell him I’m not going to make the deadline.
While he’s sympathetic, he is not happy.
“Unfortunately, pushing back your deadline even a month or two puts us smack dab in the middle of the holidays,” he says. “I’ll be honest. Things in the publishing world really slow down around then. With this new delay, I’d be willing to bet your editor won’t be able to get to your project until the new year, which means we might be pushing your pub date back by several months.”
My stomach is in knots. I promised my readers I’d have this book out by next summer. They’ve been clamoring for it ever since. The thought of disappointing them makes me want to die.
“I shouldn’t have cut it so close,” I say. “That was a rookie move, and I’m sorry. So freaking sorry. What can I do to make this better?”
“I’ll reach out to your editor and see what I can do. I make no promises, but I’ll do my best. In the meantime, you take care of yourself.”
“They’re never going to want to work with me after this. And my readers, my sponsors—ugh, what are they going to think?”
“I wish I could answer that for you. Just be honest with them. They’ve waited this long, so I’d like to think they won’t mind waiting a bit more. I will say that publishing is notorious for being a very slow industry. Sometimes a few months ends up being the equivalent, of, like, an inch or two in the grand scheme of things.”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better. But my mom’s words immediately pop into my head nonetheless. You give an inch, and then you give another, and then all of a sudden all those inches turn into miles.
The magma in my head starts to boil. My heart pounds, sending shockwaves of panic through my torso. Making my gut twist in the most painful way imaginable.
Oh God.
Oh my God.
A month into this parenting thing, and it’s already happening.
I’m already giving in. Sacrificing something I love—one of my dreams—at the altar of motherhood.
It’s just an inch now. Just a month or two or six. But over time, inches and months add up.
Just ask my mom.
Agreeing to date Ford and be a stepmom to Bryce, I think wildly, was a mistake.
What the hell am I supposed to do here? The thought of disappointing Bryce is pure agony. Like, my heart cracks in two just thinking about it.
But by not disappointing her, I’m disappointing my readers. I’m putting my business at risk.
No matter what I do, I’m screwed.
I thank my agent, apologizing again, and hang up the phone.
Oh my God what a freaking mess I’ve gotten myself into.
“Stop it,” I say out loud to myself. “You’re sick, you haven’t eaten a solid meal in four days, and you’re not thinking straight. This is awful, but it doesn’t mean your career is finished.”
But now that my fevered mind has caught onto the idea, it won’t let go. Those mean little thoughts turn into mean big thoughts.
I was an idiot to volunteer for the coaching position.
I was an even bigger idiot to think I could do the juggle. The relationship-parenthood-career juggle.
Maybe other parents can make the balance happen. Maybe, I don’t know, I’m missing some essential something that would make me less of a train wreck at this. More patience. More organization. More willpower.
My career is just so much more than just my career. It’s my passion. My outlet. A source of immense satisfaction and pride. By pushing back deadlines, I’m not only putting a lot of money on the line. Sponsorships. Future royalties. Future book deals. I’m putting my heart there, too. My sense of self. My hard-won readership that took me over a decade to build.
I’ve been pushing and pushing, and now I’ve gone and pushed myself right over the edge. Yeah, we’re just moving my pub date back a few months. But what happens next time when, I don’t know, Ford is launching a huge project, and the nanny disappears, and I have work to do but there’s no one else to watch Bryce?
