Just in case you haven’t heard, Jamie Ford has a new novel, The Songs of Willow Frost, out this week. To celebrate, I’m rerunning his “Call in Sick More Often” – a Jamie Ford biography in reverse – which ran here the week The Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet released. – Meg
Yesterday, my debut novel, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet begins appearing in bookstores across North America.
A week ago, I check my Amazon page. I have 29 reviews and the book isn’t even out yet. I take that as a good omen.
A month ago, I learn that I’ve been chosen as an NEXT List selection. Being a newbie author, I google “IndieBound.” I realize it’s the reincarnation of BookSense.
Three months ago, I have dinner with Pennie Clark Ianniciello, the book buyer extraordinaire for Costco. She asks if I’d like to be her pick for February. I nearly choke on my salad.
Three months ago, and a day, I receive a nasty review from Publisher’s Weekly. I now understand why their reviewers go about their business anonymously. I wallow.
Four months ago, I attend the Pacific Northwest Bookseller’s Association’s Feast of Authors along with dozens of other writers. I meet Ivan Doig, who tells me I should allow myself 24 hours to wallow after a bad review—then get over it.
Five months ago, I travel to NYC to attend a media luncheon hosted by Random House. I want to take in a final game at Yankees Stadium but I’m too busy. Then I remember, I hate the Yankees.
Seven months ago, an ARC of Hotel shows up on my doorstep. I read a few pages thinking, “Wow, I don’t suck as bad as I’d thought.”
Eight months ago, a security guard yells at me for taking photos in the book-filled lobby of the Random House building. I palm my camera and keep shooting.
Eight months ago, and an hour, I step off the elevator at Random House, am greeted by Jane, my illustrious editor, and am ushered into a boardroom, which is filled with various department heads. I sing for my supper.
Twelve months ago, I send in the final edited manuscript. Copy edits are coming, but the heavy lifting is done.
Fifteen months ago, I send in what I think is the final edited manuscript. Little do I know…
Nineteen months ago, Hotel sells at auction to Random House.
Twenty-three months ago, I sign with Kristin Nelson, an agent based in Denver. I pass on offers from four New York agents. My writer friends think I’m crazy, for a lot of reasons.
Twenty-three months ago, and a day, I agree to sell my shares of the company I partly own, essentially quitting my day job. My former partners chalk up my desire to write as a mid-life meltdown. They get the mid-life part right.
Twenty-seven months ago, I finish the first draft of Hotel.
Twenty-nine months ago, I visit Seattle’s Panama Hotel 
for the first time. The owner offers paid tours of the hotel basement and its historical artifacts—a minimum 6-person tour. I pay for six, and do my research alone.
Thirty-one months ago, I attend the Squaw Valley Writers Conference. I meet an agent and an editor that both like my short story, “I Am Chinese.” The editor tells me to quit my day job and turn it into a novel. I smile and thank him, then go back to work on Monday.
Thirty-three months ago, I attend Orson Scott Card’s Literary Bootcamp in Virginia. We write and critique all week, an average of 18-hours each day. I’m the only literary writer in attendance. Card fascinates me with the concept of a noble romantic tragedy. I already have the setting and characters in mind. I write “The Button” in two days. Which I later lengthen and rename, “I Am Chinese.”
Thirty-four months ago, the Picolata Review accepts a sliver of a story featuring two young characters, Henry Lee and Keiko Okabe, living in Seattle’s Chinatown, circa 1942. I’m feeling much better now.
Thirty-five months ago, I get an email from an editor of a new literary journal, he’s read my blog and asks me to submit something. I’ve been writing fiction off and on for about five years but had never published a story, so I call in sick, stay home and write a 1,200-word vignette exploring Asian American themes. I submit it that day.
Moral of the story: Call in sick more often. – Jamie Ford
