My top 10 Halloween Season Publishing Nightmares:
Simon and Schuster calls. They’re terribly sorry, but they thought this whole time that Amy Poehler wrote SMALL ADMISSIONS. They appreciate my understanding for the mistake and would ask me to please return the advance at my earliest convenience.
I am reading in front of a big crowd at a book store and suddenly have a hot flash, flop-sweat debacle to the degree of Albert Brooks in Broadcast News.
I discover that I’ve earned a spot on the worst-book list and the worst-dressed list in the same issue of the same magazine.
During a reading, I lean casually against a bookshelf. It falls over, and I die. I’ve spoiled the mood; no one buys a book.
Simon and Schuster calls: They’re terribly sorry, but they printed the book inside out. They appreciate my understanding and assure me that the cover looks great on pages 175-176. Fortunately, they’d already decided — based on pre-sales — to print only 13 copies.
Donald Trump becomes president, and my book is banned nation-wide due to the smart, employed, “nasty,” Wellesley College-educated female characters.
Hillary Clinton becomes president and invites me to the White House because she likes my smart, employed, “nasty,” Wellesley College-educated female characters. That one’s not a nightmare.
I give a reading and, unlike for Matthew Norman, not even @fattymagoo shows up: What To Do When No One Shows Up To Your Reading (on Lit Hub).
There’s a record-breaking blizzard on the day of my book launch party, and the roads are impassable. I take the subway to the reading, and we stop between stations. I’m surrounded by a large group of rowdy, drunk clowns in full make-up and costumes, complete with red noses and rainbow wigs. The drunkest of the clowns throws up on my new Louboutin pumps and Wolford stockings I bought just for the occasion. His friend apologizes and offers me his big yellow clown shoes, which I wear to the party.
My son and a clown, riding the subway
And finally, Simon and Schuster calls: This entire publishing thing was a delusion. They’re sure I’m a perfectly fine writer but would respectfully ask that I see a psychiatrist and cease and desist from telling people that I’m one of their authors. There’s no book. There’s no deal. Seriously, so stop.
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