I submitted my first novel to a small publisher who sponsored two yearly contests, one for romance novels and one for mysteries. I had known about the contest for a long time, but I procrastinated sending the manuscript in until the last minute. I only did it then because my husband nagged me to. Truthfully, I suppose I didn’t want anyone to read it. I mean, you like your own work, but that’s no gurantee that anyone else will.

Anyway, I sent it in and forgot about it until the middle of June. It was late-after midnight-but I was curious to see who made the short list, so I got on the computer and almost fainted. My name was the first one on the short list. I woke everybody up and made them celebrate with me. I was proud of that, but I still didn’t think I’d win.

Sometime around the end of the summer I was eating the last of the ice cream out of a carton when the phone rang. When the publisher said her name I jumped straight up, leaving the ice cream on the sofa. I knew she wouldn’t have called unless she had something good to say.

We talked for a long time. I don’t really remember everything she said. I was too excited to remember. All I really heard her say was that I had won and that she’d be publishing my book.

I finally calmed down and went back into the living room only to find that the ice cream had melted and run all over everything. Know what? That was one time when I didn’t mind cleaning up at all.

This post was submitted by Elaine Cantrell.

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