Mom and Dad have been texting all day, and Justin’s parents haven’t been much better, either. We’re waiting for all manner of phone calls, and the anxiety is so thick in the house that you could cut it with a knife.
Justin is waiting for news of this week’s bestseller list, and we’re waiting to hear whether our application to foster a child, or children, has been accepted.
Mom: Any news?
I know she means well, but every time my phone chimes, I think this is it. If it’s not news of Justin’s latest release, it’s someone going to tell me that we get to be parents. Or that we don’t.
Justin is on book number sixteen. His readership has grown steadily with each release, and he’s just signed a contract with a publisher for his paperback rights. He’s going to be on the shelves of major bookstores not only across the country, but across the world. He’s transferred his back catalog to all wide platforms, so his books are available on all major book sales platforms, and we’re working on translations and audio.
He’s thriving. I am so fucking proud of him, proud of us. We are turning into every bit the publishing power couple that I predicted we could.
I can’t say it’s been an easy ride. And learning to run his day-to-day operations, the advertising, the marketing, the formatting, the social media accounts, essentially everything that isn’t the actual writing itself, well, let’s just say it was a steep learning curve. Real steep. Like…off the sheer edge of a cliff kind of steep.
We’ve had his Facebook ad account disabled—and reinstated—twice. He’s had his Instagram account hacked and permanently locked so we’ve had to start a new account on the ’gram. And with his second to most recent release, his main sales platform inexplicably canceled his pre-orders meaning we wound up doing a live launch—boy was that fun. Not.
I’m constantly learning, and his business is constantly growing despite the shifting landscape of indie publishing. Despite pirates, fierce competition in the genre, and a constant need to pivot to keep up with the latest trends, my man is not only meeting expectations, he’s excelling.
I’m still his biggest fan, though these days I get to read the rough draft, the word vomit that spills from his fingers into Scrivener before it’s polished. I read it again when it comes out the other side of the machine, too.
Sophia has started to learn how to format his books. We pay her a fair wage for her time, and I’m hopeful that it’ll be a nice side hustle for her when she goes off to college. If she doesn’t spend it all on ice cream and board games first.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Justin’s rumbling low voice permeates my thoughts.
“Just thinking about how far we’ve come.” I’m well aware of just how fortunate we are to be able to afford to buy a house, Justin has traded in his old crappy car for a much nicer—though still preowned—upgrade, and we have a two week, all-inclusive vacation to Costa Rica planned for a couple months from now.
As much as we’ve both worked our asses off for the success, we’ve also been blessed with more than a little bit of good luck along the way as well.
His phone chimes, and I snatch mine off the table in front of me, almost sending my margarita flying. It’s not my phone ringing, but what if the chimes from his phone drown out my own ringer?
Yeah, I know the logic isn’t there, but there isn’t much rational thinking when it comes to something you want so badly you can almost taste it.
While Justin reads his message, I check his book’s ranking on his dashboard. It’s been in the top fifty books of the entire US store since it released a couple weeks ago, getting all the way up to top ten for a few days, too.
He just keeps staring at it like he’s seeing things. I don’t blame him—it’s a pretty huge accomplishment and even though it’s amazing, I can see the wary hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance to fully accept that he has “made it.” The caution with which he accepts his monthly paycheck, and the unwillingness to look beyond the bottom line being made each month. In this industry, you can’t rely on consistency, you have to create it, and it’s hard as fuck.
“We hit the list.” My jaw hangs open.
I’m on my feet and squealing so loud the neighbors might call the police, but fuck if I care. He picks me up, banding his arms around my middle and swings me around. “We did it, pretty girl. We did it.”
Tears stream down my beautiful man’s face as he sobs enthusiastically. My own tears follow as I hug him tightly against me. This has been a dream of his since he started writing, and to be here to witness it is an honor I can’t put into words.
“I told you it was your best book to date.”
He shakes his head against my shoulder as I cling to him even tighter. “Sometimes it’s not the best book thatdoesthe best. You know that. Some of my favorite books in my backlist are duds, some of my best written books are my poorest sellers, and sometimes people resonate with books you might not have thought would have done well.”
I nod, knowing only too well that he’s right. One of his author friends had a book in his backlist go viral from a social media clip, it shot the book straight to the top of the charts and stayed there for a whole month. The author had been stunned. It was a three-year-old book, sitting pretty in the top 100 of the store. For weeks.
“Congratulations, baby. You did it. You hit the list!”
“I hit the list.” He’s staring at his phone like it’s a rare Pokémon, and he’s afraid it’ll evade capture. “We hit the fucking list.”
Peeling him off me, I make my way to the fridge and dig out the $200 bottle of champagne I picked up and poorly hid to celebrate this exact moment.
“Wait.” His hand shoots out, making me pause. “Let’s wait to see what we hear back about becoming foster parents first.”
He has a point, so instead we finish our drinks, grab another round, and spend the next hour calling our parents and answering texts and calls from almost everyone we know. Even though Justin no longer lives or plays in Cedar Rapids, Raccoons both old and new are deeply invested in his author career.
They’re almost as excited as we are right now. Almost.
