January 8, 2007 might not seem like a particularly memorable  date to most people, but it will always be a red-letter day for me. That's the day my thriller about an environmental disaster in Antarctica sold to Berkley. Think Jurassic Park on ice — a solar energy company melting icebergs into drinking water while environmental extremists plot to stop them --- neither realizing that the water is contaminated with an unknown, deadly disease.

 I happened to be in a bookstore when I got the call. My agent asked if I could talk for a few minutes, and then wouldn't tell me what was up until I found a place to sit down. I was mildly annoyed with him, because I couldn't think of a single reason he’d call with needing-to-sit-down news, since it had been some months since the novel went on submission, and I was deeply involved in writing the next. But after he told me we had an offer, and who it was from, my knees actually did get weak, so it was a good thing I was sitting down. After that, I walked around the store grinning like an idiot. Fortunately, my daughter was with me --- otherwise, I would have had to hug a stranger. My girls bought me flowers and fixed a nice celebration dinner, and then we broke open the gift bottle of champagne I'd been saving for this occasion for SEVERAL YEARS.

It's been months since the novel sold, and I'm still over the moon. I hope every author who's working toward publication gets to experience this very soon. The reality is even better than I had imagined. Selling a novel changes you --- it validates all the years of learning the craft; all the querying, all the rejection. Someone believed in my work enough to associate their name with mine and put their own reputation on the line using my words. No matter what happens from here on out, I'll never be an aspiring writer again. I’m going to be published!