“Here it is”. My husband interrupted my impatient scanning of the shelves in front of me and pressed a small book into my hands. I stared. He really had found it.
Familiar territory, to go to a bookstore and search the shelves for something, frustration mounting because it doesn’t seem to be where I’d expect it to be. Normally, I’d simply ask one of the staff. But on this day, I felt reluctant to ask, because I wasn’t actually going to buy the book. I wrote it.
And that’s very unfamiliar territory.
Suddenly, all the tension was gone. I stared at the book in my hands and a wash of emotion carried a single fact into my brain. I‘m a writer. A published writer.
Not only that. My book is on sale in the same bookstore where I bought at least half of the books on my shelves at home.
It’s the fulfilment of a childhood dream. I wanted to be a writer even as quite a small child. I remember being laughed at when, asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I replied, “I want to be an author”. The laughter was because I couldn’t pronounce it. It came out more like, “I want to be an earther”.
But earther, author or writer, I’m amazed at how much it means to me. The rational adult in me knows that to the rest of the world it’s an ordinary book and will be read by a small audience. But somewhere inside there is a small child jumping for joy and yelling, “I TOLD YOU SO!!!”
Here's the link to my book on Amazon. Would you like a copy?