There was no phone call or e-mail. I read it first on the Orillia Packet and Times website. It was March 27, 2008. The day before, I'd been living the glamorous high life of the self-published author, schlepping my first novel around in the trunk of my car and pleading with independent bookstores to take a few copies on consignment. Then the news broke that my book had somehow been short-listed for the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour . In that instant, my life as a weekend writer changed. In the next instant, I was curled in the fetal position, hyperventilating into a paper bag.
When I finished writing The Best Laid Plans , I honestly had no real expectations that it would ever be published. Hopes and dreams? Sure. Expectations? Not so much. Would I really have written a satirical novel of Canadian politics if I'd wanted to be published? It started out strictly as a personal challenge: Could I string 100,000 words together in a way that somehow approached coherence.
After I'd finished the manuscript, I still didn't know. I'd lost all perspective on it. So, based on what I'd learned on the Internet (about publishing, I mean), I sent out dozens of query letters and plot synopses to literary agents. The year-long silence that followed was deafening and discouraging. Undeterred (I didn't know enough to be deterred), I podcast my novel, one chapter at a time, and made it available for free on iTunes and at www.terryfallis.com . Then I did what is unthinkable to many writers. I self-published The Best Laid Plans . It wasn't my first choice. Self-publishing is seldom an aspiring writer's first choice.
When I finally held it in my hands in September 2007, it looked and felt like a real book. I was thrilled. A launch was organized at my alma mater and both people who came bought books. Online sales to family and friends trickled in. Then, on a lark, I sent the 10 author copies I still had gathering dust in my office up to the Leacock Association in Orillia. Appearing on the short-list was the surprise of my life. Within a week, I signed with a literary agent, the wonderful and respected Beverley Slopen. We met for drinks at the Toronto Four Seasons and though calm on the outside, I was a quivering mass of excitement inside. The turning point in our conversation came when she took my hands in hers and said “Terry, you are not going to win the Leacock Medal, so we have 30 days to find you a publisher.”
By April 30, the day the Leacock Medal winner was to be announced, we'd had a few nibbles, several rejections, but nothing definitive (okay, the rejections were definitive). So my wife Nancy and I drove up to Orillia for the Leacock Luncheon. I had just barely begun to recuperate from the shock of being short-listed a month earlier, so hearing my name announced from the podium as the winner set back my recovery considerably. I was floored.
I stumbled to my feet in a daze and barely survived my impromptu acceptance speech. To see my name on a list of Leacock winners alongside Robertson Davies, Mordecai Richler, Paul Quarrington, and W.O. Mitchell literally left my knees weak and wobbly (and still does). On the drive home, Nancy turned to me and said, “This will be noted in your obituary.” I slowed down immediately.
