In 2014, when I first got the news that my first manuscript, Promised to the Crown, was going to be published, I had two tiny children under the age of four and was working as a French teacher for an online school before online teaching was mainstream. My days were packed and most of my teaching salary went to exciting splurges like diapers and Cheerios.
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I did plan to set aside a portion of my advance for marketing and branding—I was starting off from scratch after all—but most would be plunked down on the ever-present millstone around my neck: my student loans.
When the check (an actual live check) arrived, how best to honor this massive publishing milestone was on my mind. I’d deposited the modest sum in person, actually interacting with a teller like it was 1993 because I was hoping to somehow keep the cashed check and frame it. They couldn’t let me keep the cancelled check as a memento, so instead I purchased a Sacajawea dollar minted that year to save as “the first dollar” I made in publishing.
I still have it, and it sits in a drawer on my desk in a little protective sleeve. I haven’t looked at it in ages. I’ve meant to have it framed so I can admire it, but alas, that hasn’t happened in the ten years since I signed my first contract. A nice token to have, but it’s mostly desk clutter.
I was part of an online critique group at the time my deal was signed, which was an invaluable asset to me. We had a few established authors and several who were still querying, so I felt like I was in the middle of the pack.
When the check (an actual live check) arrived, how best to honor this massive publishing milestone was on my mind.
One of our merry band, the incomparable Gwen Florio, was two or three books ahead of me in the process by that time sent me a message: “Take some of that money and buy something you don’t need. It doesn’t have to be expensive, but you’ll be glad you did.”
The message came through when I was at a grocery store and I knew that if I didn’t take the advice soon, Navient, Nelnet, and Sallie Mae would be in possession of the rest of my advance money.
I mulled over what might be a suitable trinket as I wandered the aisles until I came across a white mug with a handle and interior in a less-than-attractive shade of pea green with the words “Don’t Forget to be Awesome” emblazoned on the front. I am rarely without a warm beverage in hand—the stronger the brew the better—and it was all of five dollars, so I placed it in the cart.
This would be my reward for the countless hours I’d devoted to my beloved manuscript and the rugged path I’d slogged on my publishing journey. Because how many times on that long and winding road did I question my own capabilities? How many times had I wondered if I was good enough or whether this whole endeavor had been a waste of time?
Far too many.
This mug, filled with hope and caffeine, has now seen me through the drafting of ten (!) solo novels, two collaborative novels, a million bits of promotional writing. Over a million words. Not to mention all the ups and downs in the publishing industry that are weighty enough to crush the soul all by themselves.
But more than that, this mug has seen me through ten years of motherhood, several moves (some wanted, some not), my son’s autism diagnosis, a divorce, homeschooling two children with very different needs through a global pandemic, and a remarriage.
I remember clutching the white and pea-soup green mug in my hands as I was agonizing over how to portray Claire Eiffel, the heroine of Mademoiselle Eiffel. Brave? Much upon? Bold? Dutiful?
I settled for all the above because the mug and the magi bean-brew inside reminded me that we all contain multitudes. And despite my inner critic telling me to make simple choices that I can execute easily, I chose to believe I was capable of doing more and better.
On those days, I go to the cupboard, brew a cup of something (preferably dangerously caffeinated) and remember that, as my mug asserts, I am capable of awesome so long as I remember to believe it.
There are still plenty of days when the publishing market, my hectic schedule with multiple book releases just months apart, kids in every activity known to man from choir and robotics to volleyball and…beekeeping (?) seem just too much. There are days when the blank page of a new project seems just too daunting to be getting on with.
But on those days, I go to the cupboard, brew a cup of something (preferably dangerously caffeinated) and remember that, as my mug asserts, I am capable of awesome so long as I remember to believe it.
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Mademoiselle Eiffel by Aimie K. Runyan is available via William Morrow.
