It has taken me six years to write a book: thinking it was done, then rip it apart, rewrite, add chapters, ferment in my PC for lengthy periods—just to go through the 360—many more times. It has been the hardest thing I have ever done. Well, next to the many attempts to quit a cigarette habit…
One of the challenges of writing this book has been choosing to not talk about it, which has been really f’n hard because I talk a lot and this book is always on my mind—in the forefront of my brain or in the basement of my subconscious. It’s become my dirty little secret, to tell you the truth.
Why a secret?
- If you tell someone you’re writing a book and you’ve never written one previously, they’ll give you that raised eyebrow look, “Yeah, right.” Honestly, I didn’t want to waste my nicotine infused breathe with, “Yes, I am,” raising my plucked brow and wine filled glass.
- I informed a few people, many years ago, I was writing a book; and they’d respond months later, “You haven’t finished that yet???” Ugh. “Jesus. Who do you think I am? Mozart of the written word? Honestly, you don’t know how hard it is to write 89,000 words, police teenagers and work a 24/7 job—on commission only, and take care of my crazy cat.” I just got tired of saying that, too.
- People want to know what it is about. “It’s the real estate version of Bourdain’s KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL.” Fascinated, “Does it have recipes too?” O.M.G.
- When disclosing #3, my coworkers and clients feel uncomfortable—wondering if I am writing an exposé chapter about them. Or I hear, “I better be in your book!” Seriously? No, you’re not. Trust me.
Onset of the six year journey:
Like most newbie or wannabe agents, I read all of the books: HOW TO MAKE IT RICH IN REAL ESTATE, BECOME A FAT CAT $ELLING HOUSES and so on. Not one of the books actually took me through a deal—entirely. Secondly, I could never find a book that didn’t have a glossed-over finish or nip-n-tuck billion dollar ending. I desired to read a book that was real, the naked truth about this business of selling properties. Never found it. So I wrote it.
There you have it: I’ve penned a real estate memoir, naked and unforgiving–multi-million dollar pads in NYC to $21,000 houses in CLE. Knowing if it’s ever published, it’ll probably sabotage my career. With that, a few weeks ago, I started querying pimping my completed manuscript to NYC Literary Agents. (Yes, I’m an agent in need of an agent. Ironic. I sure wish I had hundreds of clients sending me house queries every week—that’d be a game changer, for sure.) Anyway, I’ve had two requests to read the full manuscript, thus far. It’s a bit thrilling with a large dose of “nerve-racking and spirit-quelling metropolis,” Shelley-poetic. (Okay, that’s extreme)
And, who knows, I might be informed soon, “Revise and resubmit—in six more years.” I’m okay with that, too. Such is the affliction of real estate and writing.