One Writer's Perfect Day

by Margaret Lucke

The date: August 15, some years ago. The place: New York City. The weather: hot and sticky, both temperature and humidity hovering around ninety-five. My husband and I were visiting his parents in Connecticut, and we took the train into the city that morning for one of the most exciting days of my life.

Several months earlier my first novel, A Relative Stranger, had been bought by St. Martin's Press.  Publication day was in just a few weeks. Today I was going to enjoy a visit to my publisher, lunch with my editor, dinner that night with my agent.

My publisher, my editor, my agent--what beautiful words. I had dreamed about this day ever since I scribbled my first stories and decided that when I grew up, I was going to be a writer.

Everything came together to make the day perfect.

When the appointments were arranged I'd wondered what I'd wear. I wanted an outfit that would look professional, yet not make me swelter. I had an image of myself walking down a New York sidewalk in a lightweight turquoise dress with a swinging skirt. But I didn't own such a dress; in fact, my closet contained nothing at all that seemed suitable. A few days before flying east I wandered into a department store, and there it was--a gorgeous silk dress of the precise turquoise color, exactly my size, exactly as I'd pictured it. Problem was, it cost triple what I had in my budget. I left the store empty-handed. When the mail arrived later that day, it included a check for a freelance job I’d done months earlier, a payment so long overdue that I’d given up on ever receiving it. The amount was just slightly more than the dress's price tag. I went straight back to the store.

I was wearing the dress now, feeling cool and wonderful despite the heat. The train was on time, and while my husband wandered off to take photos of the city, I arrived right on schedule at the legendary Flatiron Building, where St. Martin's was headquartered. I was greeted warmly, introduced to everyone, given a tour of the offices, and made to feel like a VIP. Then the editor and I strolled to a nearby Italian restaurant, where we indulged in pasta, wine, and conversation about books and life (and aren't those much the same thing?).

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through bookstores, picturing my novel tucked on the shelves and stacked on display tables. I imagined long lines of readers queued up to have me sign their books.

That evening my husband and I went to my agent's apartment for drinks, followed by dinner at a small Spanish restaurant in the village. More delicious food, wine, and conversation.

On the train back to Connecticut I reflected on my perfect day. Wined and dined by an agent and editor. Taken seriously as a writer, welcomed into the community of authors. The day was all about possibilities--at that moment, the book and my writing career had unlimited potential.

I hadn't even spilled anything on the dress.

Oh yes, did I mention that it was my birthday?

I've had good days and bad ones since then, but that steamy August day will always stand out in my memory. It was the first day I really believed I was a writer.

Comments

[Mysti Berry]

What a beautiful story! it's good to know there are happy endings--and beginnings!!!!

[Susan C Shea]

Oh, Peggy, what a perfect day! I can imagine the joy in your setep!

[Susan C Shea]

"step"...