My first advance check came in the mail.
Like most authors, I don't do this for the money. I would write--and have been writing--no matter what. Regardless of whether it's read, whether it's loved, whether it's paid for, I am writing. But there comes a time in the life of a professional author when someone decides her ideas, her craft, her thoughts are worth paying for, and I have to say it's . . . sort of a whammy. In a good way.
There will be more of these checks, of course . . . this is just an advance, and if all goes well the book will sell awesomely and I'll be getting more of these thin sheets of validation, but this is a first in my life. I've been paid to write. Someone bought my book. A publisher decided my words were valuable enough to exchange for dollars. And readers will indicate that they want to digest my ideas by paying for a nicely packaged version of those words.
I'm a bona fide professional at the thing I most love to do in the whole world.
Clearly this requires that I demonstrate spotless decorum in the public arena forever after.
Okay, not really.
|Yes, you're supposed to use the money to buy food, |
then eat the food. But I cut out the middleman.