Hurtling along the Dan Ryan expressway, we spied with our own little eyes U.S. Cellular Field. Narrowing his eyes, my husband gestured at the empty stadium which seats 40,000. "Imagine you're in a crowd that size -- times one hundred -- and you start to understand the odds against becoming another Madonna."
Only Spock, a.k.a. my husband, can drill reality home. Like a laser right through the skull. Or a (hilarious) cold slap in the face.
Only 20 or so authors seem to dominate fiction's bestseller list, and it seems ever harder to break in. Gone are Jacqueline Susann days of half-a-mil advances, of no-name authors reaching the stratosphere overnight, flashbulbs popping at the unveiling.
Now, the only popping sound seems to be to our own ego balloons.
These days, blogs seem to be a foot in the door to a book deal. Specifically, blogs that attract millions of hits and advertisers. But at what cost to my privacy?
Some bloggers cover some raunchy, salacious material. A suburban dweller of my humble stature can't possibly compete. Unless...
I make up something.
Example: "Cheryl's Exclusive Dish on Brangelina: I Restrain Brad Pitt While Angelina Shaves Off That Weird Beard."
Well. Anyhoo. I write because I love it. It's (wait for it! -- you know the cliche's coming) -- a passion.
And I have Spock to keep my delusions in line.
"Face it, after we're dead, our grandchildren will barely remember us." My husband is grim, fighting me for the remote. "And they'll pitch all your college art work."
"Great," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Are you available for inspirational keynote speeches, too?"
"The road to publication's bumpy. Just know what the odds are, Madonna."
I do.
Only Spock, a.k.a. my husband, can drill reality home. Like a laser right through the skull. Or a (hilarious) cold slap in the face.
Only 20 or so authors seem to dominate fiction's bestseller list, and it seems ever harder to break in. Gone are Jacqueline Susann days of half-a-mil advances, of no-name authors reaching the stratosphere overnight, flashbulbs popping at the unveiling.
Now, the only popping sound seems to be to our own ego balloons.
These days, blogs seem to be a foot in the door to a book deal. Specifically, blogs that attract millions of hits and advertisers. But at what cost to my privacy?
Some bloggers cover some raunchy, salacious material. A suburban dweller of my humble stature can't possibly compete. Unless...
I make up something.
Example: "Cheryl's Exclusive Dish on Brangelina: I Restrain Brad Pitt While Angelina Shaves Off That Weird Beard."
Well. Anyhoo. I write because I love it. It's (wait for it! -- you know the cliche's coming) -- a passion.
And I have Spock to keep my delusions in line.
"Face it, after we're dead, our grandchildren will barely remember us." My husband is grim, fighting me for the remote. "And they'll pitch all your college art work."
"Great," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Are you available for inspirational keynote speeches, too?"
"The road to publication's bumpy. Just know what the odds are, Madonna."
I do.
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