The ARC hits New York
My ARCs have arrived! They came on Thursday, in a brown box with “Simon & Schuster” written over the sides in blue block letters. I couldn’t open the box fast enough. I pushed a key through the packing tape and starting ripping. But then I got worried that I had pushed too hard and pierced one of the books inside. I was so relieved when I pulled the sides opened and saw the books perfectly intact. They are beautiful. The cover is so shiny and even prettier in person.
Naturally on Friday I brought one of my ARCs to work with me so I could show it off. I pulled it out of the protective wrapping I had wrapped around it. Everyone oohed and ahhed and wanted to hold it. All of a sudden I felt like it was one of the Crown Jewels, something that should be viewed from behind protective glass so the shiny cover didn’t get smudged with fingerprints. I mean, I want people to read it. I want it to be the kind of book that is read over and over again, and gets weathered from all the love and wear and tear. But my ARC was just so pretty. Letting people hold it was like saying goodbye to my kid on the first day of kindergarten . . . at least, how I think that will be, someday. I don’t have a kid yet.
Later on, I met my friend Christine Whelan, who is also a writer, for a drink at Joe Allen. She is visiting from out of town, so it was especially exciting that I got to show her the ARC. I took her picture holding it. Then my best friend Arielle met me for dinner. I ordered the La Scala salad; incidentally, the text my book is set in is called Scala. Then we went to see The Little Mermaid on Broadway. We found our row. Arielle sat down next to a little girl who was bouncing up and down in her seat in excitement. “Guess what my name is,” Arielle told her. “It’s Arielle.”
The little girl looked at her, baffled. “But that’s the name of the little mermaid!” she exclaimed.
I, of course, busied myself taking pictures of the book in the theater. I posed it on the seat. Then I made Arielle hold it up. The mother of the little girl next to us offered to take a picture of Arielle and me together. I held up the book and Arielle held up the playbill. Arielle told her that I was a writer and the book I was holding was a book I had written. “That’s wonderful,” the woman said.
Since the photo shoot was now over, I put the book back into its protective wrapping, and back in my bag. Arielle leaned over to me and lowered her voice. “They’re talking about us,” she said, nodding over toward the little girl and her mother.
“Really?” I asked. “About my book?”
“Well no,” she said, “they’re actually talking about me. You know, because my name is Arielle. But I’m sure they’ll talk about your book next.”
Naturally on Friday I brought one of my ARCs to work with me so I could show it off. I pulled it out of the protective wrapping I had wrapped around it. Everyone oohed and ahhed and wanted to hold it. All of a sudden I felt like it was one of the Crown Jewels, something that should be viewed from behind protective glass so the shiny cover didn’t get smudged with fingerprints. I mean, I want people to read it. I want it to be the kind of book that is read over and over again, and gets weathered from all the love and wear and tear. But my ARC was just so pretty. Letting people hold it was like saying goodbye to my kid on the first day of kindergarten . . . at least, how I think that will be, someday. I don’t have a kid yet.
Later on, I met my friend Christine Whelan, who is also a writer, for a drink at Joe Allen. She is visiting from out of town, so it was especially exciting that I got to show her the ARC. I took her picture holding it. Then my best friend Arielle met me for dinner. I ordered the La Scala salad; incidentally, the text my book is set in is called Scala. Then we went to see The Little Mermaid on Broadway. We found our row. Arielle sat down next to a little girl who was bouncing up and down in her seat in excitement. “Guess what my name is,” Arielle told her. “It’s Arielle.”
The little girl looked at her, baffled. “But that’s the name of the little mermaid!” she exclaimed.
I, of course, busied myself taking pictures of the book in the theater. I posed it on the seat. Then I made Arielle hold it up. The mother of the little girl next to us offered to take a picture of Arielle and me together. I held up the book and Arielle held up the playbill. Arielle told her that I was a writer and the book I was holding was a book I had written. “That’s wonderful,” the woman said.
Since the photo shoot was now over, I put the book back into its protective wrapping, and back in my bag. Arielle leaned over to me and lowered her voice. “They’re talking about us,” she said, nodding over toward the little girl and her mother.
“Really?” I asked. “About my book?”
“Well no,” she said, “they’re actually talking about me. You know, because my name is Arielle. But I’m sure they’ll talk about your book next.”