My grandmother Margaret was person who planted the belief that publishing is the ultimate dream come true.
She would type manuscript after manuscript in her over-heated senior apartment with the dream of one day becoming an author. She'd say, "When I publish my books, I'll buy a place where you can all stay."
For her, being published meant being successful. And rich beyond her wildest dreams.
But it never happened. While she won a few writing contests, she never found an agent. She never published her books. She died in 1999, before the realm of self-publishing. Where every draft had to be retyped page by page, with only White-Out to correct mistakes. But she kept at it.
I, too, harbored dreams of becoming a published author so that one day I could live in a tripped-out log cabin, a place we could all stay. I'd hike and write to my heart's content.
My advance is due any day now and it's far from enough (especially in the New Jersey housing market) to afford a home, or even a used Honda Odyssey. But by living the author's life, I am rich beyond my wildest dreams.