Barbara Bretton Reviews

From the month of February 1982 I wrote and sold my first novel. And no, I wouldn't believe it if it had not happened to me. I sent in my writings on Thursday February 21, 1982 and four days later the phone rang and I heard the wonderful words, "We want to buy your book" The way I wish you could have seen me. I was standing by the entrance doorway of our North Babylon home, the image of cool elegance, as I listened to Vivian Stephens explain the conditions of the deal to me personally. You would have thought I had sold a very first book each and every day of my life. Yes, I said. Sounds wonderful. Thanks so much for calling. I anticipate our institution. That trendy elegance hung on till I hung up the phone, took a deep breath, then promptly threw on my sneakers.

I was thirty-one years old, unagented, unschooled, unfamiliar with whatever related to the work of publishing. To put it mildly, I was in shock. My husband had been working in Manhattan at the time (and finishing his degree in night) so it would be hours before I could break the news to him. This was overly exciting to waste on a telephone call. I wished to watch his face when I told him that my dream had finally come true -- and arrived with a $6000 advance!

He pulled into the driveway. I had been waiting in the doorway, carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. I didn't have to say a sentence. He understood right away and the appearance of pride and joy in his eyes annoys me now, years after, long after the progress faded into memory.

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