I don't know why I thought the BIG DAY would end up not being a disaster. I mean, I've met me. I wrote a book about being me. Then I lived through that book'sÂ four year editing process. You know, the one that was supposed to be less than two years long? And featured a complete stylistic rewrite of the book (later scrapped), my editor getting fired, and my brain exploding? Yes - that's the one.
But I had a PLAN for the book's release, people. It involved eating the entire crunchies layer out of a Carvel ice cream cake (for breakfast, obv), going to a bookstore and holding the book, and inviting my best friends over to drink this very expensive champagne my mom gave me, like, three years ago. Then I was going to read the book - something I haven't actually ever done without also trying to edit. And certainly never in finished book form, with a beautiful cover and actual pages and stuff.
Well, too bad for me. Instead, I got to spend the morning sitting on the floor of a subway car because I was too weak to stand, watching the other passengers try to decide if I was ill or had just escaped from a nuthouse. Then I got to hang out in a hospital gown, sobbing, while I got tested for dengue fever, malaria, and typhus. What a treat! Instead of cake and champers, I got crackers and Gatorade - which I enjoyed while huddled in my bed, praying for death to take me.
The only thing I read that day were the instructions for my at-home sal monella test. If you've taken one, I'm sure you are feeling sorry for me right now. If you haven't, consider yourself lucky.
All of my friends felt terrible that I was so sick. And every single one of them - including my agent, who hasn't even known me that long! - said something like, "Of course, you're not actually surprised that this happened, right? I mean, it's you. Can I bring you some ginger ale or anything?"
I still have a book. Which is pretty freaking amazing. I mean, four days later I still can't eat anything besides rice and my head may never stop hurting... but there's still a book. People are reading it. Maybe someone is reading it right now! Maybe it's making her laugh. Maybe she's wondering how on earth the author thought of so many horrible things to do to her poor main character. Maybe she's eating a Carvel cake in a coincidental homage.
I wonder if I'm actually bringing this on myself? Is it a chicken/egg thing? Sure, I was me for many years before I wrote the book, but maybe I could mix things up and change how everything works in the future, thereby guaranteeing a disaster-free existence starting now.
So for my next book I'll write about a girl who gets everything she wants and has a perfect life and lives on a rainbow-colored cloud and cures cancer and has a really cute boyfriend that she never fights with and together they end the war in the Middle East while having perfect hair.
Think anyone will read it?