MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 6)

In 2008 William returned home to Los Angeles to continue his work. I again attended the writers' conference, read an excerpt from my novel and received a favorable audience reaction.

In New York City I met with my agent for a fortifying lunch. Susan was still optimistic about selling my memoir despite a stock market in freefall, rising unemployment rates and American car conglomerates on the brink of collapse. I was relieved to hear her speak both realistically and enthusiastically. It was a balm on my worries.

The Shakespeare Club performed a fine rendition of "Romeo and Juliet" in the spring and I was proud of the effort on all our parts. I continued to churn out pages of my novel and sent the first two hundred pages to Susan for her consideration. I was eager for her thoughts because it was the one thing I was feeling most positive about. Maybe the novel would sell before the memoir. Maybe....

I'd taken to learning as much about the publishing world as I could. I studied blogs and read books by editors. It was becoming increasingly clear that this staid and possibly archaic business of book publishing was about to kneel down and turn over like a great elephant rolling into a bath of warm mud — a morphing process similar to what we had witnessed in the worlds of music and movies. Important editors at major publishing houses were either being dropped or quitting at an alarming rate. We were about to hear of e-books, Kindles and iPads. With the economy in peril it became obvious how my professional life would be affected.

William and I celebrated Barack Obama's election and at the same time wondered if we were holding hope of this one person's abilities too high. Could he save us? Maybe....

After reading the beginning of my novel, Susan let me know I wrote fiction well and the writing was mesmerizing...but what would the market be for such a book? To whom could she sell it?

I sank. I had zero answers. It was becoming apparent that the highbrow literary world is not too different than Hollywood or any business, for that matter. The bottom line is about what sells. I wasn't writing for the market. I didn't know how to write for the market. Yet I still wanted an audience.

I stared out the window of my home office at green lawns and black crows hopping across the grass. I rubbed Scrabble's little ears and took Stinky on long walks. My neck continued to itch and it wasn't turtleneck weather. I suspected the publishing universe knew precisely what the hell was going on with my neck because neither of the dermatologists I consulted had a clue. My bathroom was filled with myriad creams and lotions that had little effect.

At least William was working, which we were grateful for every day, but by autumn my manuscript had been in the marketplace for a year with only one near bite.