My calendar has things jotted on dates that make my eyes widen. “October 23rd – Region 3 AAAA Cheer Championship, Author’s copies should arrive, 1/2 day vacation.” “October 30th, Mom and Dad leave, Book release date.” “November 3rd, Book signing.” I run my finger across the entries and wonder if someone else’s calendar made its way to my desk.
There are things written on my To Do list that astonish me. Things like:
- Contact bookstores to set up additional book signings.
- Check with BAM to ensure they’ve received book shipment.
- Stop by Michael’s for embroidery floss (to make bookmarks for book signing.)
- Email marketing about author’s copies and calendar of events
In looking over my daughter’s college applications, my eyes skidded to halt on the “Occupation” blank. For the first time, I realized I could fill in that space with the word “writer” — and it would be true. I am actually, truly, really for real, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die, an author.
All of this seems surreal. When I have the book in my hands, when the shiny, colorful promotional covers I’ve looked at for months are finally filled with hundreds of pages, tens of thousands of words, when I open it and see the story that was once only in my head, perhaps then I won’t feel like I’m pretending.