Two days later I stepped off an elevator onto the top floor of a building on Union Square. I had been working with my agent, Stacey Glick, for the last two years, but our France-to-New York communication had been entirely by phone and email. Now I was about to meet her for the first time.

I stepped through the door labeled “Dystel and Goderich Literary Management” to see, instead of several uniformed guards sitting at the front desk, a woman dressed in something pretty who smiled and told me Stacey would be right out. I breathed a sigh of relief – this meeting would low-key.

As Stacey walked through the door I felt my hand rising for the corporate shake, but, like my editor, she too surprised me with a hug. I felt welcome right away, as she gave me a tour of the agency and introduced me around.

Along with the rest of the staff, I met Mirium Goderich, who had read my pitch letter for my first book and thought it had enough merit to pass it on to Stacey. (Believe me, I gave her a heartfelt “thank you”!) Jane Dystel, the agency’s president, stopped by to congratulate me on the book.

Lauren Abramo, the subsidiary rights director, sat down with Stacey and me to go over foreign rights. Lauren has managed to sell the rights to DIE FOR ME in six different countries, and she took the time to explain the way things work – not an easy task since every country has different rules and needs different paperwork.

And then we were off to a celebratory lunch – treat of Dystel & Goderich. Stacey and I walked a few minutes away to Union Square Café, where all of the VIP literary types are said to dine. Of course, Salman Rushdie could have sat right down on my lap and I wouldn’t have recognized him. I never do. I once scared Stephen Fry when I walked up and said “hi” to him on a New York City sidewalk. Since he looked so familiar I assumed he must be someone I worked with.

We had something gorgeous for starters, but I can’t remember now what it was because our main dishes were SO INCREDIBLE that they blocked out any other culinary memory. My softshell crab melted in my mouth. And I tried one of Stacey’s gnocchi. The only feasible explanation for its unparalleled airiness and deliciousness is that it was made out of a cloud.

We talked about life. Kids. Working from home. Books. My current book. And ideas I had for future projects. One in particular Stacey was enthusiastic about, so I put it at the top of my “post-DIE-FOR-ME” to-write list.

At the end, we kept looking at our watches because I had another meeting, but I wanted to stay chatting until the last possible second. As Stacey said, we could have talked all day. Finally I gave her a regretful hug goodbye and booked it to the subway. At which point I began shaking. Because, as I sped northward under the New York City streets, there was a camera crew waiting for me. And in just a few minutes, I would be shooting my first video interview. [to be continued…]

People began filing into the conference room. Before they sat down, everyone came up to shake my hand and introduce herself. I didn’t even try to remember the names, afraid my brain might Ctrl+Alt+Del if I put it under any further stress.

Once we were about ten around the table, Tara said we could start. Most of the crowd was from publicity and marketing and the questions they asked were meant to help them position the book and dig up information that could be of interest in promoting DIE FOR ME.

They asked me how I had come up with the idea for the book. How I had created my monsters. Where I had found the word “revenant”. Where I found my inspiration. Why I had set the book in Paris. What it was like to live in France. If I wrote full-time or had other activities. And lots of other questions that I couldn’t remember now if you gave me a million dollars because I was SO DAMN NERVOUS and just trying to respond to everything in a way that would not involve me having to take a Converse off and play contortionist in order to stick my foot firmly into my mouth.

I am renowned amongst friends and family for my impressive foot-in-mouth skills. When I’m under pressure I call people who I have known for years the wrong name. I say things that make me cringe and want to hide under a chair hours later when I remember them. Luckily, it usually brings a laugh. But sometimes, if someone doesn’t know me, it just brings confusion.

Like, in the middle of the meeting, when one woman who had lived in Paris for a year told me how the city had always stayed with her. Had latched on to her and informed her life afterwards.

And I said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. Paris is kind of like a leech.” Silence. Confused stares. “Um…except instead of just taking from you, the leech would have to be giving back. Of course.” Everybody sat and thought deeply for a minute, including me. Luckily, some very kind soul jumped in with another question. If I could remember who it was, I would name my next child after them.

Two more women walked in and introduced themselves as the ones who would be choosing my book’s cover art. “Your book is so visual!” they said, telling me they had just read the manuscript a couple of days before. Someone else piped in and said that they had just planned to read a couple of chapters before bed, but couldn’t put it down until they were finished and stayed up all night.

Then it became a compliment-fest with people telling me how beautifully the story was written, how original it was, and how they liked my characters. I tried to forget about the leech and bask in the praise. I’m normally so self-critical that it takes someone leaping upon me and showering me in kisses before I will truly believe that they like something I did.

It wasn’t until everyone had left that I noticed that the fruit and cookie platter hadn’t been touched. And it occurred to me that everyone else must have been waiting for me to take something first – I was the guest of honor. I picked up a cookie and then shoved the plate towards Tara and Melissa. They dug in with me and we happily munched for a few moments as I attempted to de-stress.

Then, as we were leaving, I wrapped a few cookies in a napkin for my kids and stuck them in my purse before realizing that that’s the very same thing my Mom did at the London Ritz that had me crawling under the table in embarrassment. Not to mention how we would always laugh at Laurent’s grandma for stealing all of the sugar packets from restaurants. Take foot, insert in cookie-tray.

Tara took me back to her office and showed me other books she had edited, telling me that cover art for Young Adult is almost exclusively a photographed image. I told her that that was a shame since I am a huge fan of illustration. I mentioned my favorite artist in the field and she said, “Hold on a minute”. She called someone on her speakerphone and a second later a woman appeared with an advance-copy of a book by Maira Kalman and Lemony Snicket. “For you!” Tara said, as I melted into a puddle on the floor of her office.

Little does she know, besides all of Maira’s books I have a collection of every New Yorker cover she ever did, as well as a Max the Dog Poet doll that I won’t let my kids touch. I then confessed that I took a graphic design seminar taught by Maira just so I could sit there for two hours and stare at her. Tara smiled encouragingly, so I went a little further and told her that I had named my children after characters in Maira’s books. And my son’s middle name after Maira’s husband. And she still smiled encouragingly and didn’t call security to come carry me away.

And then the thought occurred to me: I can be as strange as I want now. I don’t have to hide my eccentricities any more (not that I ever did that very well) and constantly self-monitor like I’ve always had to do in the business world. I can just be my own foot-in-my-mouth, awkward, random-thoughts me from now on. Because, this is the literary world – the world of quirky authors – and Tara and her colleagues have surely seen everything.

[To be continued.]

I stepped through the door of the HarperCollins building and gave my name to a guard at the front desk. She checked some information on a computer screen and printed out a visitor’s sticker for me. “Put it here,” she said, indicating a spot near my shoulder. Attaching something gooey to my brand new shirt just wasn’t going to happen. I smiled innocently at her and stuck it to the side of my handbag.

A few minutes later a pretty dark-haired woman wearing cute bookish glasses and a flared skirt stepped through the security gate and stood in front of me. It was my editor, Tara Weikum. After four phone conversations and dozens of emails, I was finally meeting her in the flesh.

I got ready to shake her hand, but instead she gave me a hug. I couldn’t help but smiling. In France I never know how many kisses to give. Now, in my own country I was having the same greeting-etiquette confusion.

Tara took me to a cafe across the street, where we sipped coffees and got acquainted, which felt like going about things backwards since we had been communicating since November. I mentioned how weird that was, but she said that after working on the book together she felt she already knew me.

I’ve heard that a lot, after blogging about my life for the last five years. I start telling someone a story, and the say, “Oh yeah, I read about that on your blog. I feel like I already know you so well.” “Aha!” I want to say, “You only know the parts that I write about, which doesn’t even cover the tip of the iceberg!” But I never actually say it, because then I’d have to reveal more than I wanted or else come across as annoyingly mysterious.

Back to the story. I managed learn a bit about Tara, but left wishing I knew more. My usual curiosity about people’s stories was in this case left unquenched. But living in France, where asking personal questions is considered prying, I seem to have lost the chutzpah it takes to dig for more info.

Then we talked about what was to come during the next year – up until the publication of Die For Me: the copyediting, cover art, galley copies, and all that. I wanted to know for my deadline for Book 2, and she asked if end-October would work. I said, “Sure!” unwilling to embarrass myself by counting on my fingers how many months that was. (Later, when I did, I just about fainted.) I told her what I had in mind for Book 2, and she smiled, nodding as she listened and giving her input only when I pushed for it, like the wonderfully supportive editor she is.

Finally, she said it was time to go back. We returned to the building, dumped my bag in her office, picked up her colleague Melissa, and headed up a few floors to a very corporate-looking boardroom.

The last time I had been in that official-looking of a boardroom was soon after I moved to New York in the late 90s. While trying to start my own business during the day, I worked nights at a chi-chi law firm. I would sneak in after the lawyers’ meetings and gorge myself on what was left of the expensive cookie-and-fruit trays, before spending the rest of the evening faxing legal documents to England.

Now Tara was motioning for me to sit at the head of the enormous table, just beside an untouched fruit-and-cookie tray that had been specially ordered for my very own meeting. The irony was not lost on me. I was glad I was wearing my sparkly Converses. They were the only things holding me down to earth. [To be continued…]

Here’s a confession: I have never wept in a drag queen bar. Until two weeks ago, that is.

It happened at the tail-end of a 2 1/2-week visit to the States with Laurent and the kids. We had car, train and planed it from Restigne to New York. After a few days in Shelter Island, it was back to the airport, where we took three planes to Walla Walla, Washington for my family reunion. Then back to New York for a week, where Laurent and I traded off toddler-management while the other person worked.

The Brooklyn apartment we had sublet had only beds and kitchen stuff – no tv, internet connection, toys, etc. – since our host was in the midst of moving. It was also an hour’s subway ride to the center of town, which we hadn’t counted on. The temperature was in the 90s – too hot to stay for long in an in-town playground. And the kids weren’t used to walking long city blocks. So, besides taking them to the Natural History Museum and several films – indoor activities – our only option was sitting around in an empty apartment and watching dvds on my computer. It was pretty hard going.

Tuesday was my first day to myself, and I had a meeting scheduled at HarperCollins at 2:30. I had chosen the clothes for my meetings without counting on the weather being skin-meltingly hot. So the first order of the day was to shop. I needed something for that afternoon, and then a different outfit for Thursday, when I had a morning meeting with my agency and lunch with my agent, followed by a video shoot at the publishing house.

I asked my fashion-savvy friend, Claire, where I should go for one-stop shopping, seeing I only had a couple of free hours and dislike shopping unless it involves paintings or antiques. She pointed me to Barneys, saying that it was pricey but that I would definitely find something. I arrived and wandered around lost for a while, then finally approached a shop assistant and told him I needed a colorful top.

“It can’t be green or blue since it’s for a video being shot against a green-screen, and has to have some sort of sleeves since I hate my upper arms.” He nodded, looking pensive, and then asked what colors I liked. “Well, I usually wear black or grey – dark colors – but it should probably be bright, so maybe red or purple?”

He looked like I had slapped him, and said softly, as if not to shock anyone within hearing distance, “You will find no red or purple this season!!!” “Ok,” I said doubtfully. “Then just show me what you’ve got.” A minute later I was standing in front of a pink cardigan with grosgrain ribbons tying the front. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was some sort of twisted vengeance for my asking for red or purple.

“See, the thing is,” I began, “I’m being interviewed for a book I wrote about zombies. So pink probably isn’t the way to go. Do you have anything more…post-apocalyptic?”

He nodded prissily, as if everything made sense now and I should have told him that in the first place.

“Oh, also, my budget is more around $100 than $2800,” I said, frowning at the price tag and wondering if the pink wool had been harvested with nail clippers from the underbellies of hand-tinted Tibetan sheep fed only on fois gras and champagne.

“You’ll need to go upstairs then,” he responded, no longer looking at me. “You should find something on the top floor.”

I walked out an hour later with a bag containing three black shirts. I had just enough time to take the subway back to the apartment, speed-choose which went best with my gray jeans, brush my hair, and call a cab. I asked the driver if he could get me to East 53rd street in a half-hour. He smiled wickedly, gunned the accelerator, and did a Starsky-and-Hutch peel-out all of the way to midtown.

Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the car in front of HarperCollins’s forty-floor glass building. Sweating from both nerves and the damp-electric-blanket-style New York heat, I walked through the massive doors with just one tiny prayer to the God of 100% Silk on my trembling lips: Please let me not have armpit stains when I met my editor.

[To be continued…]

Two weeks ago I turned in the second rewrite of my book – now definitively entitled DIE FOR ME. My editors acknowledged its receipt and said they would get back to me with any further tweaks or changes. At which point I changed my name and moved to Rio.

Just kidding. I am so extremely thankful for the success my book has had…before even being published. (It has already been bought in seven languages, which is so incredible to me it feels unreal.) I am profoundly grateful that the advance check allowed me to quit my day-job and plunge into the career I always dreamed of. The way things have worked out make me feel like I’m leading a charmed life. (Quick, give me some wood to knock on.) But EVEN SO…by the end of the last rewrite, I felt like I was dog-paddling through lava in an angst-ridden purgatory. And this is why:

Writing comes easily to me (thanks partially to the daily practice this blog gave me for years). Creating also is a bit of a cinch – whether designing a dragon birthday cake for my daughter or thinking up a new monster for my book. I just kind of zone out and go into the little place in my head where everything comes together, or I walk a few miles until the next scene or solution appears like a vision bursting fully-formed out of the vineyards.

But concentrating, focusing, problem-solving – especially when it’s a problem posed by someone coming from a different mental direction than my right brain is used to – that does not come naturally to me. Or easily. It’s like pulling teeth. And I’m talking impacted wisdom teeth, with roots down to the jawbone.

I have no clue how brain activity works for rewrites specifically, but I assume I’m being forced to use my left brain. It’s like I am being asked to work one of those paragraph-long math problems about what mileage a car gets if it drives from Alabama to Kentucky on 3.5 tanks of gas. I can’t do them. I read them and my brain starts feeling fuzzy. And then I try to concentrate and all of the numbers go flying off the page and hide, giggling evilly at me from a dark corner of the room.

But it’s just writing! (I tell myself.) It’s just words. I know words…I love them. I love to play with them and manipulate them and I get the biggest thrill when I read a word that has been placed perfectly – in exactly the right sentence and context. It’s like looking at an Old Master painting. Gets my heart beating and my head spinning.

And yet, when you look more closely, that word is just an assemblage of curves and lines appearing on a two-dimensional surface. Just like how that perfect shadow under the chin of a Botticelli Madonna is in actuality just a brushstroke of paint containing a larger quantity of black pigment than that of her skin color.

And when you have looked at a sentence twenty times, really thinking about each word and its order in the sentence and whether it’s the best word to use…especially when the editor is saying that the line is “a bit flat”, words start breaking up into their lowest common denominators – little squiggles on a screen. Just try to rewrite the sentence when you’ve gotten to that point. And then how about 362 pages of words? And do it when you know there are a lot of people waiting to see what you come up with.

For the amount of work my brain did during the last two rewrites (because I already did three versions under my own steam before publishers ever saw the manuscript) I could have written another couple of books. But would they have been good books? Would they have been as good as I hope this one has become?

I doubt it. I trust my editors, even though they cut a lot of parts that I loved – mainly descriptions that slowed down the story line. They called that process “cutting the little lovelies”. They forced me to think in ways that didn’t come naturally, and therefore deeper. I basically got an intensive three-month masters-level writing course from a couple of pros, and got paid for it. I don’t regret it for a second, and it would be unconscionably idiotic of me to complain. But now I know what really goes into this dream-job. I never thought it would be easy. And I was right.

After a bit of a hard slog, and a good case of shaken confidence, I am ready to go back to creating. We’re off to the States for a couple of weeks, when I will finally meet my agent and editors in real life. Once we return it’s onwards and upwards with Book #2.