Kathryn Elizabeth Jones

A few months ago as I made my way to a local Barnes and Noble bookstore, I stumbled upon an author's book signing. The author was pleased enough as he shared with me some of the details of his first published book.

I was excited for him because being a published novelist was a dream I'd had too-to sit and chat behind a table of books-a whole pile of books with my name written on them. But that's what dreams are. Something you want-desperately-for a very long time, hoping and praying but not sure if what you desire will ever come to fruition.

What I thought was that perhaps I'd be one of those folks who'd end up writing their entire lifetime, only to see their name in book form after they'd passed on. At best, I thought I'd be old when it happened.

But the guy in front of me looked young, probably twenty-five, and I wondered how long it had taken him before the grand day of publishing.

And so I asked him.

"Two years," he said.

I was stunned. After only two years of writing he was published? After over twenty years of writing I had a few publishing credits under my belt, but not a book. And maybe I never would.

Still, I went home and read his stupid book. And it was pretty good too. Perhaps it didn't matter how many years the author had been writing. Perhaps what mattered was that he hadn't given up. After two years of writing, he'd found a publisher. I knew I wouldn't give up-couldn't give up, even though more than half of my lifetime had already passed.

Writing for me was like eating at my favorite restaurant and not getting stuck with the bill. Writing was good. And I wanted the goodness to last until the day I died-maybe even longer.

So how long did it take me to publish my first book? About six months following the conversation with the young, published writer.

The morning it happened, I was sitting in front of my computer reading my e-mails only to discover these words in electronic black and white.

"Congratulations-Book Contract."

I was stunned. After over twenty years of writing I had sold my first book. And I wasn't even dead!

Ok, so I wasn't twenty-five either, but I was still young enough to feel the intense juice of reality running through my veins.

I had sold a book, my first book. And as incredible as this may sound, in that second of realization, all the rejection slips, all the turn-down's, the criticisms, the critiques, the plain out stupid stuff that I'd written, culminated and spread before me like a vast blanket.

And I thought, "Where would I have been today without all of this?"

"What if, after talking to the two-year champion in authorship, I had gone home and thrown his book into the trash, vowing never to write again?"

I don't even want to think about it.
* * *
Intense Juice has been published in:
Oquirrh Muse May 2002
Of Good Report June 2002

Kathryn Elizabeth Jones
	*Author of "A River of Stones"*
	*A Novel for Young Adults*
	*"Intense Juice "*
	A few months ago as I made my way to a local Barnes and Noble bookstore, I stumbled upon an author's book signing. The author was pleased enough as he shared with me some of the details of his first published book. I was excited for him because being a published novelist was a dream I'd had too-to sit and chat behind a table of books-a whole pile of books with my name written on them. But that's what dreams are. Something you want-desperately-for a very long time, hoping and praying but not sure if what you desire will ever come to fruition. What I thought was that perhaps I'd be one of those folks who'd end up writing their entire lifetime, only to see their name in book form after they'd passed on. At best, I thought I'd be old when it happened. But the guy in front of me looked young, probably twenty-five, and I wondered how long it had taken him before the grand day of publishing. And so I asked him. "Two years," he said. I was stunned. After only two years of writing he was published? After over twenty years of writing I had a few publishing credits under my belt, but not a book. And maybe I never would. Still, I went home and read his stupid book. And it was pretty good too. Perhaps it didn't matter how many years the author had been writing. Perhaps what mattered was that he hadn't given up. After two years of writing, he'd found a publisher. I knew I wouldn't give up-couldn't give up, even though more than half of my lifetime had already passed. Writing for me was like eating at my favorite restaurant and not getting stuck with the bill. Writing was good. And I wanted the goodness to last until the day I died-maybe even longer. So how long did it take me to publish my first book? About six months following the conversation with the young, published writer. The morning it happened, I was sitting in front of my computer reading my e-mails only to discover these words in electronic black and white. "Congratulations-Book Contract." I was stunned. After over twenty years of writing I had sold my first book. And I wasn't even dead! Ok, so I wasn't twenty-five either, but I was still young enough to feel the intense juice of reality running through my veins. I had sold a book, my first book. And as incredible as this may sound, in that second of realization, all the rejection slips, all the turn-down's, the criticisms, the critiques, the plain out stupid stuff that I'd written, culminated and spread before me like a vast blanket. And I thought, "Where would I have been today without all of this?" "What if, after talking to the two-year champion in authorship, I had gone home and thrown his book into the trash, vowing never to write again?" I don't even want to think about it. * * * Intense Juice has been published in: Oquirrh Muse May 2002 Of Good Report June 2002