But the blessed hotel let me check in early and even have breakfast, so all is good, waiting for The Lunch.
This is something writers go through. I've never met my sweet editor, who's a darling but a baby, and we're having one of those "where is my career going" kind of lunch (fabulous agent will be there too). I can't tell you how many of them I've had.
In general they're a good meal and good company and not much else. No matter who the publisher is, no matter how good their intentions are, things seldom come to fruition. I'm not going to badmouth my publishers -- they do the best they can, make the choices they hope are the smart ones, and fate takes over from there.
In the past I've been full of rage, of grief, of cold-hearted plans for vengeance. You see, it's not about me. It's about my books, which are my children. Wouldn't you be fierce when it comes to protecting your children?
But last year I developed a Zen-like calm. Every now and then I get ruffled, but I can usually OM my way back to equanimity (along with Come to Jesus talks from Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich). I'm glorious, and my work really moves a lot of people. That's what matters.
So why did I drag myself out of bed at such an ungodly hour and am spending so much time and money to deal with publishing again? I'm not. We'll do the publishing talk. The "what are your plans for Anne" kind of thing (which my agent is fabulous at).
But mostly my baby boy editor and I will eat fabulous food and talk about craft and sex, and that will be a good enough reason. I'll leave the publishing crap to my agent.
But right now I'm going to crash. I don't leave for three hours to head into mid-town, and I'm tired.
So wish me luck. Wish me glory. Wish me a nice long nap and a great meal, and I'll report in when I get back.