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"Send your story to a leading publisher, before you decide no one else wants it," she said. She had just graduated from law school, and was into giving advice. "You don't understand!" I told her, "this is a seasonal fantasy about a doll!" Debbie refused to grasp the subtleties of the children's book market. Finally, just to prove my point, I queried Houghton Mifflin about the book. I didn't even try to make the story sound appealing. "It's a Christmas fantasy about a little girl and a ballet doll," I wrote bluntly. The editor responded quickly, "Please send your story." Six months went by and I didn't hear from the publisher. Finally I worked up the nerve to call. "I'm so glad you called!" the editor said. "We were just getting ready to offer you a contract." Nothing in my experience had prepared me for this moment. I was like the cartoon character who hurls himself at a closed door that opens unexpectedly at the last minute, sending him flying through. All my life I'd heard "No." No, you're not smart; no, you can't write. No, you can't have written this story (my eighth grade teacher, Mr. Eul). Suddenly I was hearing "yes!" I was practically speechless. "What about revisions?" I managed to croak. I knew from my class that the editor would expect a major rewrite. "I don't want to change a single word, although the copy editor thinks there's too much starlight." The editor paused a moment, "But I don't think there can ever be too much starlight." ![]() |
