Today is the day I mail my press packet to the U.S. publisher. There’s a confidentiality agreement on its way, so they must be serious enough about wanting me. The butterflies in my tummy today, however, are almost worse — no, they are worse — than the day I sent off my CV and cover letter. I’m currently running on nervous-excited adrenaline.
No, I’m good. I’m fine. I have a black folder, my business cards, a small photo, and I’ve selected excellent samples of my writing. It’s a good cross-section of first-person, academic, analytical, and educational styles. I have my colour services pamphlet that I drew up some time back. The writing will be printed out professionally tonight, then into the folder it will go, along with a hard copy of my CV, a one-page summary of my experience (I’ll just rewrite my awesome cover letter!), and a hand-written note telling my contact that I�m actually ten years older than my photo makes me look. (Seriously. Well, no; the picture makes me look twenty-four. I’m thirty-two. So eight years older.)
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I’m excited!
If I could harness these butterflies, I could probably reach the moon.