#40 Once upon a time… did I mess up?

I had my first job interview almost twenty-five years ago. Professionally speaking, I was a baby; from any other perspective, I was not much older.

I remember how I walked into that meeting room, full of hopes, dreams, and a massive headache after partying the whole night before that with my friends. Fortunately, that’s something I learned to manage differently since then. I mean the timing. I was never good at dealing with hangovers.

That first interview ended up being successful, despite some of my messed-up answers, and I worked in that place for more than a decade. However, as it has always happened, I can’t avoid thinking there was a big part of luck in that process. Always. No matter how prepared I was in those moments I succeeded, I know, deep down, that things were affected by many things I couldn’t control.

Last week, despite considering myself a little bit wiser than I was in my early twenties, I found myself almost in the same place, feeling somehow unqualified and full of dreams of becoming something greater than myself. I have no greatness fever, or at least I try to convince myself of such a thing every day that passes, but returning to that state of mind, the one of someone who doesn’t have all the cards in her hands, is terrifying... and I am terrified of being terrified, because usually, that leads to weird situations.

I traveled to Frankfurt to meet my editor and publisher, to get to know a little bit more about the publishing Industry, and to tell anyone who wanted to hear that I’m here to make it, which is not cocky or pretentious when you’ve quit your job and have no plan B. I want to write and sell books. If that’s something terrible to aim for, I’m guilty, and I don’t regret it-- not a single bit.

That was the first time I met my editor, who has worked with me in the last couple of years to bring my first novel to light. There are still a few months ahead of us for this to happen, and I know I have to let her do her thing, but for someone responsible for people and projects to move on for years, sitting and relaxing is not difficult; it is borderline impossible. I’ve been bombarding her with questions for months and insisted on doing some “extra” stuff I probably shouldn’t, but she has been gracious enough to listen, answer, and let me be.

During my last day in Frankfurt, I was surrounded by agents and publishers at the Book Fair, and I felt ridiculously small. I couldn’t stop thinking those are the people who might determine the success of many writers like me. I recognized many of the agencies present there and even a few names of agents. I’ve sent too many queries and read hundreds of agents’ profiles not to, but that’s all I did: I thought about the last two years and what brought me to that massive room full of white tables.

The one rule to follow when you are in such a place, in “the room where it happens”, is “do not engage.” You should only approach those people if they invite you, that’s the rule-- even written on the Fair’s website-- and that’s what I did. I only spoke with an agent for five minutes because I convinced my editor to let me tag along. I behaved. I did my two-minute pitch, answered the few questions directed to me, and then left the table with a smile but slightly heartbroken.

“I could have done it better. I should have done it differently, I messed it up, “ I told my editor when she finished her meeting.

I had been standing in the corridor for half an hour, watching people walking around like busy bees, wondering who would work on the next big success as I dictated notes on my phone for my next post, when something hit me:

I was once one of these people.

I had been to trade fairs before. I had been doing business between wooden panels with a nice touch of paint and behaved extremely professionally as expected, too. I had had the meetings, walked the corridors, and talked to colleagues, peers, and customers. I had felt both proud and miserable about it, too. Proud because of the work and results, miserable because when you are in the middle of such a place, alone, wandering the stands with no one to talk to, you can feel exhausted and lonely.

Nothing is so exciting and glamorous as it might look. Ever.

After reuniting with my editor and sitting on a concrete step for another half an hour, I realized something else: it will work, no matter what. My book will be published, translated, and sold around the world. It might not happen all at once, but it will happen, because once upon a time I learned that life might not go as you planned, but that doesn’t mean it is not full of awesome stuff. It only means you have to watch carefully so you don’t miss the important things happening or forget to celebrate.

Back at home, I could only think about writing. I did not want to think about the business, how I’d felt the days before, or what would happen after that, far away from my reach and control. Just write... and then, something else happened: news, excellent news.

My partner opened a bottle of champagne —we always keep one in the fridge in case a celebration is needed— and we toasted the good moments, the past and future ones, the inevitables. Because you never know when they’ll come, but rest assured, they will.