Extra. Extra.

Slightly more than two and a half years ago, when I began writing The QC Report, I gave myself two rules: each entry had to be no less than 750 words and I had to post one every other day. When friends and loved ones asked about these two restrictions I would say something vague like “…gotta draw a line somewhere, right?” which was true but not entirely so. As near as I could tell, 750 words was a column.

If I could write 750 words every other day that meant I could be (she looks around and whispers) a newspaper columnist. Someone from a newspaper could read The QC Report and say to themselves “Why, that gal’s got moxie! Get that dame on the horn and tell her to get down to the editor’s office, pronto!” I imagined this man wearing a fedora indoors, chomping on a cigar and speaking the rapid, clipped speech of a 1930’s screwball comedy.

Of course, the 1930’s were one of the last times newspapers were frantically looking for new columnists. As I wrote and waited, I read articles about the DEATH OF THE AMERICAN NEWSPAPER and the AGING POPULATION OF THE NEWSPAPER-BUYING PUBLIC! not to mention the WHOLESALE FIRING OF EVERYONE IN THE NEWSPAPER BUSINESS NOT NAMED MURDOCH!

Still, I waited patiently and revised my plans. Now, not only would I get a column but the bulk of columns would add up drawing the attention of a literary agent who would then get me a book deal with a tiny publishing house trying to break out of its reputation as the second-best publisher of dermatology textbooks. My literary career fantasy had that perfectly Quinn blending of delusional and humble. I held it through seeing four nationally known columnists lose their jobs.

Two years later, I was still waiting for a call from the majors. I had so rarely made long-term job goals -- besides things such as Wait to audition for the funny and unattractive best friend of the lead on a sitcom or Unlike every other former child actor, try not to get arrested -- that it didn’t occur to me to revise them once I actually conceived them. Nevertheless, my audience kept growing. My regular contributors (including Mel, Judy, Houseband, Mel the Second, Valerie, et al) were a gracious, funny and talented lot and I enjoyed the writing for its own sake. I had reached a cruising altitude where I wasn’t scaring myself any more or forcing myself to stretch; it was an altitude where I could settle in and watch a fairly average in-flight movie while eating pretzels.

The email came without warning.

An editor wanted to talk to me about a book. I did what any sane person would do: I Googled her. She was, in fact, a senior editor at one of the largest publishing houses in the United States, Hyperion Publishing, who had steered several books I actually knew all the way to my local bookstore. I wrote her back with my phone number, still trying to decide if I knew anyone cruel enough to have set this up as a joke. The phone rang and no one yelled “SUCKER!”

She was exactly who she said she was. I found her to be lovely and funny and smart, which might have had something to do with all the nice things she said about my writing. I did, however, give her every indication I had severe cognitive difficulties:

EDITOR: I’ve taken your blog to the head of publishing and he’s very excited. We’d love to publish your book.

QUINN: Great, where can I send you a writing sample?

EDITOR: I…don’t need a writing sample. We’re offering you a deal.

QUINN: Terrific! So, I’ll just be waiting for you to think it over, decide if I’m right for you.

EDITOR: (Very slowly) Hyperion…wants…to…publish…your…book...now.

You’ll have to forgive me. People get book deals all the time but the book deals come though years of hard work and the tender ministrations of a dogged literary agent (or because the author has had sex with a famous person, which is another kind of hard work and tender ministration). Book deals don’t just leave emails saying “Hey. You want to write a book?”

Only, apparently, sometimes they do.

A book agent was hired and a deal was hammered out. I am to write 90,000 words, very few of which will have already been seen in the blog. I found this mildly annoying as I had planned to hand in what I had already done, only get paid for it. And, of course, for the first time in about a year the prospect of writing is sending adrenalin to my stomach and brain. The chance to succeed or fail is real again and while I can’t say I like it exactly, I am reminded of something Consort says frequently:

After a certain age, your life is either expanding or contracting.

And with this book deal I am in expansion mode again. So, I am here to say thank you to my regular readers. Knowing you are out there kept me writing when my inertia threatened to annex my muse. I am going to try to keep to my schedule of one post a week (the every-other-day business had to stop when I realized I would be cannibalizing Daughter’s childhood) but please excuse the occasional re-run.

You see, I got a job.