Once I sold a book, I figured I’d reached the career equivalent of the Promised Land. As far as I was concerned, I signed my contract and immediately crossed over to that wondrous place where the requests for my novels and expertise flowed like milk and honey. Surely I’d never again have to read those heartbreaking words that plague unpublished writers everywhere: “Thank you very much for submitting … I regret to inform you …”

No, I reassured myself. A book deal insulated me from all that ugliness.

So you can imagine my dismay the other week when I got an e-mail passing on a proposal I’d submitted to teach an online writing workshop. Double that and you’ll understand how I felt when I got ANOTHER rejection, this time for a workshop proposal I’d submitted for the national conference in Atlanta in July. True, I did have a second Atlanta workshop proposal selected, but that’s not the point.

The point, in case you’re not paying attention, is that my ideas were rejected. REJECTED. Does anyone out there feel my pain?

I’d like to say I’ve matured over the years and don’t take every single rejection letter to heart, but that’d be a big fat lie. I still sulk and pout like a two-year old. But after a couple hours of this (oh, and a HUGE piece of chocolate cake after dinner) I snapped right out of it.

Well, mostly.

Oh, who am I kidding? Four and a half years into this whole romance-writing thing, rejection still stinks and I hate it worse that ever.

I’m headed to the kitchen to find another piece of chocolate cake. And then I’m going to stop whining and get back to work.

Something momentous happened to me this past Wednesday. No, Ed McMahon’s Prize Patrol didn’t make a stop at my house. No, I didn’t fit into my jeans from college. No, my children didn’t make it through the day without tattling, taunting or fisticuffs.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t THAT momentous. But it sure was exciting.

My publisher sent me the cover flat to my book.

Realizing what it was, I held my breath and tore open the envelope. As the author, I’d supplied descriptions of the characters but otherwise had no say about what went on the cover. Publishers have art departments for that. I’d had no idea what to expect—would it be a photo of models? Graphics? Or maybe not people at all. A flower?

And then—there it was. For one stunned moment, as I stared at it, I didn’t know what to do. These characters—Dara, Mike and Sean—had for four years been solely MY creation. No one else’s. And now, suddenly, here I was staring at someone else’s rendering of what they looked like.

I couldn’t think. I’d heard all kinds of horror stories about authors crying over their covers. About covers where the (insert one here) hero/heroine’s hair color/body type/clothing was all wrong. Was this one of those covers? Did I love it or hate it? For one stupefied moment, I couldn’t decide.

And then … I loved it.

The (insert one here) hero/heroine’s hair, eye color, eye brows, clothing, earrings, even Sean’s shadowy presence in the background was all perfect–I loved all of it.

Naturally I e-mailed copies to everyone I could think of. My sister-in-law said I’m officially an author now that I have a cover and a bar code. Some people say it’s official when you have a signed contract, receive your first advance check or get your ISBN number. Others say it’s the first time you go to a bookstore and see your work on the shelf.

Is it official now? I don’t know. But … whatever “official” is, I feel closer to it now that I have a cover.

Part IV: Cliffhangers

Back when I first started writing, I wrote all my scenes in an orderly, linear, logical fashion. My legal training, remember, required it. If a character got up in the morning, I had to mention the whole showering/tooth brushing/driving to work/ parking the car thing. No detail was too insignificant for me to include it. Boring the reader to tears and then to an early grave was not one of my concerns in the early years. Reader pleasure, or lack thereof, rarely entered my mind. All my scenes began at the beginning—of a day, of a conversation—and ended at the end—of a conversation, of a love scene, of a day. More often than not, a chapter closed out with the character going to bed for the night and trying to get to sleep.

Are you feeling drowsy yet?

It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that ending scenes at the end gave readers absolutely no reason to ever pick the book up again. When I put characters safely to bed for the night, I ran the very real risk that readers would put the book down forever. With so many wonderful books competing for attention these days, why would a reader come back to a story that has so little tension and essentially gives the reader permission to put it down by providing a nice, clean breaking point?

But what about ending scenes … in the middle?

Brenda Joyce does it in “The Game.” Oh, how well I remember reading the book before bed and thinking I would just get to the end of a chapter and put it down for the night. Only guess what? The ends of the chapters were the most tension-filled parts of the book. Why? Because the chapters end at the height of the scenes.

Proof? You want proof? What about the chapter that ends with Katherine coming face to face with her pirate-kidnapper for the first time? What about the multiple scenes and/or chapters ending with the characters teetering on the brink of making love for the first time? What about—worst of all!—the chapter that ends with Liam kidnapping Katherine for the SECOND time on her wedding night to ANOTHER man, telling her, “I told you once before … that I would come for you when the time was ripe.”

If you think you’re getting any sleep when the chapters end like that, you’d better think again.

I’ve gotten smarter. I want my readers to stay up, reading, all night, to show up late for work or, better yet, to call in to work. I want them glued to their seats with wide, saucer eyes—dying to see what’s coming next. So now I end in the middle. The middle of revelations, the middle of arguments, the middle of love scenes. It’s a dirty trick, I know, to pull on unsuspecting and tired readers who only want to unwind for ten minutes before they go to sleep, but there’s no shame in my game.

Cliffhangers keep ‘em coming back and I want my readers to come back.

Enough said.

Well, guess what happened?

In one of my ongoing and varied efforts to market my books, I stumbled across BlogABook.com, where a lovely woman named Patricia was looking for a “romance expert.” Being a kind and trusting soul, Patricia was easily hoodwinked into believing that I am a romance expert. Before I knew it, she’d given me a free blog and encouraged me to talk about whatever I wanted to talk about in the world of romance books.

After a gleeful moment of thinking I’d marketed my books AND gotten something for nothing, it dawned on me that actual work will be involved. I now have to think of topics and be marginally entertaining on TWO blogs.

Gulp.

Obviously, I’m in way over my head. I predict Patricia will come to her senses and pull the plug in no time. Until she does, I’ll give it my best shot and try to post things once a week on both blogs. This one will continue to be about the birth and growth of a writer. That one will be my musings on other romance books, the industry, and allied topics.

Oh, and in my free time, I plan to keep up with my REAL job, which is writing books. Goodness knows I don’t want to get a call from an unhappy agent or editor.

Okay? Okay.

Check it out when you have time:

www.blogitorium.com/annchristopher

I wanted to wish everyone happy new year in a manner that was both eloquent and original, but, alas, it was not to be. My brain has finally overdosed on all the sugary, chocolaty treats I’ve consumed over the past two weeks and is therefore no longer functioning properly.

Luckily, the Irish Marriage Blessing conveys my sentiments exactly. Yes, yes, I know I’m not Irish. Nor have I ever been to Ireland. Nor do I like soda bread. And I know you’re probably not getting married today.

But all that’s beside the point. The point is that I wish you a very happy 2006—and afterward. Here goes:

May God be with you and bless you.
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortunes
and rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
from this day forward.

Hopefully my brain will be back to full capacity (such as it is) by next week.