contract in my hands!

In the mail this morning, I found a FedEx envelope that smelled like glue and ink. The return address said, ICM in New York.

I knew exactly what it was.

For a minute, I just stared at it. Then I put it on my bed. Naturally, Sula decided to chomp the corners.

I distracted her with a "feather-snake" toy and ripped open the package. Inside was not one, but four thick copies of the publisher's contract. I laughed when I saw this:

So they scrapped my title and went with "Untitled OCD novel." The rest of the contract simply calls it "the Work." It's a bunch of legal gobbledygook that concerns issues such as foreign rights and force majeure (otherwise known as Acts of God). But it's not as bizarre as I expected. In fact, most of it reads in fairly understandable English, which is a good sign.

Before I splatter my Jane Hancock on the dotted line, I'll have a few lawyer buddies look it over. Until then, I'll be bruising myself with countless pinches. As a little girl, I was one of those weirdos who knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. Why does it still feel like a dream?