You may recall that I sent in Under the Skin back in mid-May. And that I haven't heard back from my editor as to whether she liked it or not. Though I've tried to remain stoical about it, I have been fretting. Just a tad.
I didn't want to email and ask if she'd read it yet. After all, I'd been very, very much past my deadline in getting the book in -- how could I expect Herself to hurry with reading my manuscript? Besides, she was probably busy hanging out with her big, important guys -- you know, Lee Child, Karen Slaughter, Deb Crombie, Laurie King . . . that gang of NY Times bestsellers.
Or maybe, the voice of doubt said, Herself has read it. Maybe she hates it and is trying to find a way out of the contract. Or . . . or . . .
Finally my agent mentioned to Herself that we were wondering if she'd had a chance to take a look at Under the Skin.
What? says Herself, I read it back in May and accepted it and sent Vicki a note with a cc. to you.
No, says Ann, my indefatigable agent, we didn't get a note.
Hmm, says, Herself, I'll have to check when I get back to the office.
Okay, now I knew that the book had been accepted. What I didn't know is how Herself felt about it. And that matters rather immensely.
So I braved up and emailed Herself. And this is what she said.
I think it's the best thing you've ever written. I was totally enmeshed in it--the characterizations were rich and fresh and the novel-within-the-novel was strong and instantly compelling. I hated for the book to end, I truly did.
Calloo, callay! Oh, frabjous day! I chortled in my joy!
Herself went on to mention one plot line that needed reinforcing -- which I shall promptly give some thought to and address when I get the line-edited, copy-edited manuscript back.
But oh! what a weight is lifted!