Ever since I wrote poetry when I was 8 years old, I dreamed of becoming a writer. As a teenager, I joined a school literature magazine. In my 30s, I got my first byline. At middle age, I was finishing a long novel and learning how to publish it. That’s when I opened my fortune cookie to find a message that read: “You are a lover of words. One day you will write a book.” Since the book was already written, that luck could only mean one thing: publication. I scanned the little white paper with a computer, enlarged and laminated it, and created a lucky charm that was clearly visible on my desk.
Courtesy of Rosemary DiBattista
It must have worked, because against the big odds, I got an agent and multibook deals with major publishers. I live the writing life I envision — giving literature, attending conferences, having lunch with best-selling authors. But in the space of three short years, that dream fell at the intersection of art and commerce: My publisher merged with another company, and I lost my editor, my book series, and finally, my agent.
[bg_collapse view=”link” color=”#4a4949″ icon=”arrow” expand_text=”Show More” collapse_text=”Show Less” ]
enterpreneur.com
medium.com
shofipy.com
[/bg_collapse]