What Felt Like the Death of My First Two Books
(Maile and I talk about this in the most recent episode of our podcast.)
I guess it was six months ago or maybe a year ago or maybe four months ago, I’m not sure, time these days has no meaning, but at some point fewer than 18 months ago, I sent my literary agent an email asking if we could pursue getting my rights back for two of my books, The Day the Angels Fell and The Edge of Over There.
I’ve always wanted to finish the series with one more book, and I knew the publisher wouldn’t be interested in publishing the third book in a series because that would be silly and the first two hadn’t exactly hit the NYT bestseller list or won Newbery Awards. (Lesson here kids…when you sign a contract, always make sure it includes all the books in the series…)
No, a single-book publishing deal for the standalone book three that wasn’t a standalone was never going to happen. Besides a grand total of about three preteens and a handful of polite adults, there isn’t a huge crowd clamoring for the third book.
But I also didn’t want to write the third book and then not have the freedom to publicize or give away or otherwise reenergize the first two books. If I was going to write the third book, I wanted to start from scratch. Clean slate. Redesign the covers, maybe do some light editing, and create a book three (and a series) that I would be proud of. And wrap it up. After all, it’s been ten years since I first self-published The Day the Angels Fell.
So I asked for the rights back. I wasn’t even sure exactly how to go about it or what my chances were or what the stipulations might be. But the contract seemed clear and my agent was willing. She said she’d do it. Contact was initiated. And we waited.
This of course all took me back to that summer day I received the offer letter from my wonderful editor. After a bit of negotiating on some of the finer points, I got the email with all of the details. How excited she was to acquire the book. Final agreement on the title. Pub date. I read through it on my own, then called for Maile, and she came up to the little 8x8 office we shared, each with a desk against opposite walls (our backs nearly touched when we were both writing).
“Get this!” I said, and started reading the offer to her. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the door frame. It was a 3-book deal.
And then, I couldn’t read anymore, I was just sobbing for joy, and she was crying with me, and I covered my eyes and handed her the letter and she read the rest of it out loud for both of us, and we just sat there in complete shock at what was unfolding. It had actually happened.
The months that came after that were a blur. I saved this little announcement from Publisher’s Weekly:
Launch day came and went. Seth sent me his text, “This book will not do for you what you want this book to do for you.” It won some awards. I got some very nice emails and letters and messages from folks who loved it. That was a wonderful feeling.
And the years passed. I wrote the sequel. I wrote three more novels and a memoir. Because sales were underwhelming, the contracts stopped coming. And, for a time, I went into novel-writing hibernation.
It didn’t seem like getting the rights back would be a TON of work, just a few emails I guess, but time dragged on, so long that in the end I kind of forgot that we had started the process—I have a lot going on right now. You know, with the six kids and the book shop and the wonderful wife and the writing projects and sleep and the wood stove that never stops eating. And the teenagers who never stop eating. And the dog who never stops eating.