the World of Webmistress Ming

Reading an article from Neal Stephenson recently, I was struck by a similarity: like me, Stephenson shuns the "social-networking, build-a-platform" author model.

Best exemplified by Stephenie Meyers, this truism holds that authors should be out, about and available for importuning readers.

Stephenson bucks the trend, and explained that his best and highest use is to write, not hang about message boards, follow friends on Twitter or attend conferences. For him, interruptions are the great productivity killer; give him an uninterrupted week, and you get a book chapter.

And the tale unravels.

No answer from publisher for 24 hours. When it does come, this morning my time, yesterday afternoon their time, it professes "disappointment".

Well, yes.

So far, the exchange is mild, and thankfully, emotions are muted. Publisher wants to the end of the week to look at the budget and see if adjustments can be made.

I wrote back, making matters clear: there's simply no time to do the job. Let's hope that's an end of it.

I did some reading online this afternoon. If the tenor and tone of my research is to be trusted, NO WRITER EVER TURNS DOWN AN OFFER FROM A PUBLISHER.

Tomorrow, therefore, I goeth into battle. Or, more properly, battle may (or may not) come to me.

It is going to be an interesting day. Just about five hours from now, my "no thank you" is going to hit the fan.

In 12 hours, I may or may not have a reaction.

So now that Martini Boy has gotten the martinis out of his system from Thursday night (and had a nice morning with me at the yearly crafts show AND a nice afternoon with the neighbor men playing poker), we move on to the next step in the great Book Two disaster: DO I have a price?

Idea being that once my "no thank you" hits where it hurts, do I have a duty to listen to more?

Where I want to leave it? I AM NOT AVAILABLE.

Sorry to depress you all, but if I can't vent here, I can't vent.

Today was a significant, substantial, red-letter day. And what happened?

I make a decision that is ballsy, brave, self-affirming, yada, yada, yada. And within three hours, I am reminded of My Place.

Friends write to find out why I haven't RSVP'd to a political fundraiser disguised as a fashion show. "But I thought it was junk mail!" gets me nowhere.

My volunteer activity? THEY write to say, "Where are our computers?" As if I have them up my sleeve?

And my spouse.

No.

Have to say, they made it very easy for me. It would have been a lot harder if a fair and reasonable offer came over the wire.

But it didn't. For this book--twice the size of Book One, to be completed in half the time--they're offering lower royalties. As an inducement, they've upped the advance, obviously hoping that I either don't know how the world works OR that as a vulgar American, I'll snap at a bad deal if it dangles a little cash my way up-front.

The crucible is a combination of events; a new path is inevitable. That's why serendipity struck with last month's publication of The Four Hour Work Week.

I've been transfixed with this book.

Not because I have the slightest desire to travel the world in search of adventure; I have all the goals I ever need right here in my own backyard.

But this book IS giving me the outlook and the tools to shape the path ahead. Between a failed business plan, a failing body, and failing interest, change is mandatory.

Ten days into a vacation, and my third heavenly day at a world-class spa, it's a good day for a decision.

Should I write the Mommy Book?

Having spent the last two days soaking in mineral water, taking exercise classes, hiking and taking spa treatments, I feel balanced, relaxed and powerful.

That's why this morning's reminder note from the project's editor hit me in a good place of mind.

Instead of deciding, I decided to simply take the next step. I wrote back, explained that I was on vacation, outlined the work I've done so far, and laid out my concerns.

One of the first things I do, when beginning a new writing project, is to "survey the literature". If it's a Web page, I head for Google; if it's a book project, I order 15 or 20 books on the subject.

No, I'm not trolling for ideas.

I'm searching for an open niche.

Spent the afternoon doing a preliminary library survey/online order/Web search for the next project on the possible list:

A mommy book.

Or, more properly (and you have to imagine an English accent here), an "organised mum" book.

With a deadline looming next week, I have to grapple seriously with the idea. At first blush, my reaction was, "Hell no, no way, not me."