Okay, where's my rush?

I've read the contract and mailed off my comments/queries/concerns to the agent in the small hours. Now I await her response. I should have the signature copies of the contract in my hands some time next week.

After all the waiting and all the angst, I should be ecstatic. When I went to bed last night - actually around three this morning - I had to remind myself to say a prayer, and to mention therein that even though I didn't feel ecstatic, I was extremely thankful that the long awaited event had arrived.

I assume the euphoria will come, maybe when I see my signature on the thing in indelible ink. After all, this is a major benchmark on this road that I've chosen: my first publishing contract. I'm supposed to feel euphoric. The slight letdown that I'm experiencing must be the normal response to having the tension removed, of having overdone the anticipation and overestimated the joy I'd feel. The joy is there, somewhere; I know it is. So why don't I feel it?

Finally... FINALLY!

I've bitched and moaned ad nauseum on this blog about the (to me) interminable wait for the contract for my first novel to arrive. Moments ago I checked mail and found that my agent has forwarded the draft.

It hasn't even registered yet. I've had a strong feeling all week that the time was at hand, but since I've been struggling and floundering around in a state of emotional soup since the offer six months ago, my premonitions probably count for naught.

Now I've got to read it, all seven pages of it, and send the agent my comments. I should receive the signature copies within the week, she says.

Man. Finally.

Those camel couriers!

According to my admittedly iffy calculations, in a week or so I'll have an anniversary to celebrate. Yup, it'll be five months since the news that my novel sold, five months of waiting for the contract from the publisher, five months of living in no-man's-land. Feels more like five years. To understate it as best I can, I've been going totally nuts waiting. I spend the time constructively, imagining the following possible scenarios:

• The editor at Dorchester had a change of heart and will get around to letting me know this, oh, whenever she gets around to it. (Sorry, Monica. It's not you. It's me.)

• The editor just got a new job at a different publisher, and her pending deals have fallen by the wayside.

• My agent invented the whole story about getting an offer. (Sorry, Sue. I only imagine this in my most schizzed out/unhinged/lunatic moments. No, don't ask me about the frequency of these 'moments'.)

• I've been going through some sort of psychotic episode and will wake up and find that I'm actually still working at my teaching job, my son is still in high school, and I've never written anything, far less submitted a novel to anyone, anywhere.

• I'm being punished by the Almighty for my sins. Like that one where... Oh, never mind that.

• It's a conspiracy. Some evil entity is using all the players in this deal to carve out an individually-tailored version of hell for me. This is the trial run.

The problem is, basically, that I knew nothing about what is normal in this situation. Then Kevin came to my rescue in the comments section after I had been bitching about the contract yet again, and he explained the whole thing.

It's the camels! Yup, you read that correctly. Taking six months, seven, or even longer to get the contract out is normal in publishing. And it's all because of the camels. Jeez, why didn't I think of this? It makes so much sense now - more sense, in fact, than many other aspects of the business of publishing. Here's Kevin's exposé of a previously well-guarded secret:

"Only four months on the contract? A rule of publishing is contracts can only be transported on arthritic camels. No doubt with you being on an island this involves a lot of drowned dromedaries. My personal record is seven months, but I've heard longer."

Ya publishers out there, you've been outed. And I hope you don't try to hold me liable for all the camel corpses floating around the Caribbean Sea.

Needle on my obsession meter takes a dive

Couldn't stand it any more. I e-mailed my (absolutely wonderful) agent last night for a status report on the contract from Dorchester. This morning I found her response in my inbox. She has heard from the editor via e-mail that the contract is coming, so the deal is still in the works.

I'm okay now. The problem is it doesn't take very long for my stress-meter to start climbing back into the red zone. All I have to do is remember the post from that writer who had three verbal offers from publishers fall through in one year, and I'm off again.

Affirmation time. I. Won't. Obsess. Que sera, sera. I. Won't. Obsess. I... Wait a minute - affirmations shouldn't be couched in negative language. Scratch that. I. Will. Be calm. I. Will. Be positive. I...

As if I didn't obsess enough...

Last night I was perusing a blog discussion of timeliness (or rather the dearth thereof) in the publishing industry. One commenter noted that she was still shopping a manuscript although she'd had a verbal offer from a publisher. A verbal offer is pretty much what I have right now - I haven't even received the draft contract yet. The commenter went on to say that last year she had three verbal offers from publishers fall through, so she does not consider a deal done until the contract has been signed.

Whoa! Hello? They make an offer and then... nothing? I'd never even heard of this particular phenomenon.

Jeez. I need a chocolate break. Think I'll have a double serving of that dessert I had last week. Death By Chocolate. I'm gonna go down to the place right now and gorge myself.

Just kidding. I think.