THE DAY MY BOOK HIT THE list, publishers decided they really did want my book after all. The calls began to come. In addition to the publisher calls, I was receiving about three movie calls a day. I had already optioned the motion picture rights to a local company that eventually inked a deal with CBS. The Christmas Box was made into a holiday special starring Maureen O’Hara and Richard Thomas. It went on to win an Emmy and to be the highest-rated television movie of 1995.
The fifth publishing house to call made an offer. “I’m authorized to offer you two million dollars right now for the hardcover and paperback rights to your book,” he said.
“Two million dollars,” I repeated.
“We don’t want to mess around with an auction.”
I had never before heard of a book auction. “I’m not selling the paperback rights,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t,” I replied.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Because I had a feeling that I’m not supposed to sell them.”
A few days earlier as I was meditating on my book I had had an impression that I was not to sell the paperback rights. And that I was to bring the inexpensive paperback version out at the same time as the hardcover. I knew I was giving the book away and I didn’t doubt that I would lose money by doing so, but making money wasn’t the point. Everyone was supposed to be able to afford this book.
“No publisher will buy your book if you don’t sell the paperback rights,” he said.
“No publisher wanted it before,” I said.
Frustrated, he wished me luck and said good-bye. He called back the next day.
“One million dollars and you keep the paperback rights.”
“I need some time to think about it,” I said. “I’ve been on the road for several months and I’m tired. My wife’s going to have a baby in a few days.”
“I understand. Congratulations,” he said. “About the baby as well as the book.”
“Thanks. I’m also looking for an agent.”
“Do you have one in mind?”
“No. But there are several calling.”
“I bet,” he said.
•
The next day the doorbell rang. A man held one of the largest flower bouquets I had ever seen. I read the note. Congratulations on the new baby. Simon & Schuster.
It was the first of the flood to come. After two days, our dining room and kitchen were filled with flowers until our house looked more like a funeral parlor than a home. At one point the doorbell rang and Keri said, “Oh no, not more flowers.”
“Probably are,” I said.
“How long do you think this will keep up?”
“Until I sign with one of them.”
•
Abigail Hope was born January 3. Mother and child were both fine. After another week of avoiding calls I started the task of finding an agent.
•
Choosing an agent was more difficult than I imagined. I spoke to every agent who called, made what I believed was an informed choice, then knelt down to pray for a confirmation. To my surprise a different name came to mind than the one I had chosen. Laurie Liss.
I was puzzled. Even though Laurie Liss had a few years previously discovered a little book called The Bridges of Madison County, she was the last name on my list of prospective agents. And according to her own agent bio, she specialized in feminist books. But like previous inspirations, it would not let go. After several days, I reluctantly agreed to meet with her. She flew into Salt Lake to meet with me.
Laurie did not look the way I thought an agent should look. She was my age, small, slender, with graying hair and stylish glasses that made her look older than she really was.
“I loved your book,” she said. “It touched a quiet place in my heart. I believe there is something very special about it.”
It was a good opening line. But I was waiting for her to compare my book to The Bridges of Madison County, a book that, at its core, is about adultery.
“I felt the same way when I first read The Bridges of Madison-County . . .”
Here it comes, I thought.
“. . . except that Bridges was about adultery. Your book is about the best within us. It’s about loving our children and caring for each other.”
Within moments Laurie was telling me everything I believed about my book. Either she was reading my mind or she understood my vision, I thought. By the time she boarded the plane to return to New York I knew she was the right agent. But I didn’t want to admit it. It took me two days to call her. “Congratulations,” I said, “you have a new author.”
“Congratulations yourself,” she replied, “you have a damn good agent.”
Laurie called all the publishers who had called me, as well as a few others, and announced an auction. With an offer already on the table for a million dollars, she told them to “open their checkbooks to seven figures.”
I flew into New York and Laurie met me at the airport. Early the next morning we began meeting with publishers. I learned that I knew nothing about the publishing establishment. As we walked out of the first meeting I said, “I think we should just meet with large publishers.”
Laurie smiled. “St. Martin’s is a very large publisher,” she replied.
After two days of meetings I flew home. The last thing Laurie said to me was, “Don’t talk to anyone but me.”
The next morning I received a phone call around ten o’clock mountain time.
“Round one is over,” Laurie said.
“What are we at?”
“Are you sitting down?” she asked with mock drama. I sat down.
“Two and three-quarter million.”
For a moment I was speechless. Then I asked, “Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Did everyone else drop out?”
“Only two publishers. This is going on for days.”
The auction went on for two and a half days, at the end of which Simon & Schuster paid more than 4 million dollars for North American hardcover rights. I suppose it was like winning the lottery. But that was the kind of thing that only happened to someone else.
