A Writer’s Dream

Some of you know I wrote a book called The Present Giver. It’s a memoir about my son Forrest, his short life, his cancer, his death, and everything that came with it – the hard and the beautiful.

Soon after I finished writing the book, I got a call from a literary agent who loved it, wanted to pitch it to all the big publishers. I wept when I got her message. It was as if my deepest, most tightly held dreams were coming true. I was a writer! A legit writer! A writer worthy of another person’s time and energy. In the end, the agent wasn’t able to sell it, so I published it myself.

Then last Thursday, I got an email from a man named Ethan, the editorial director of one of the more distinguished publishing houses the agent had pitched my book to. He had just read it. Told me it was a powerful story, one that deserved more attention. Asked if I would consider working with him to bring it to a wider audience.

His enthusiasm went right to my heart. Forrest would come back to life. More people would have an opportunity to meet him. I could live with him again. Talk about him. Assure potential readers that my book was a love story not a worst-nightmare story. I told Ethan all of that. He wrote me back. Agreed. Said he felt the same way, that I’d communicated that love in a beautiful way; that the world needed more of this kind of beauty.

I agreed!

I agreed so completely that I sent him the manuscript. Told him what I thought could be improved, what I didn’t want to change, how I could write an epilogue that described how my beliefs about life after death have evolved, how I’ve survived. Wouldn’t that be interesting?

But Fake-Ethan had caught me. He was fishing and I’d been hooked. He was somebody somewhere who had access to my personal email and enough know-how to connect my book with that address. The catch, had he reeled me all the way in, was for me to hire the editor he recommended. Pay that editor up front, then disappear.

My husband Brent is surprised that I’m not angry. I’m not. I’m embarrassed, but also grateful, because Fake-Ethan reminded me how dear and real my dreams still are.

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Abigail Thomas painted the cover of The Present Giver. I love the tree in black and all the color growing from it. It feels like what happened to me while Forrest was here and afterwards. If you click on the book, it’ll take you to Amazon where you’ll find a soft cover and an audible version that includes some of my music and an intro recorded by my father. One of the downsides to self publishing is that sales are almost impossible anywhere but Amazon.

But you might try your local book store first.