Today is Wednesday, July 29, 2015. By many accounts, it was a normal day. I got up at the same time I do every morning, I had the same breakfast, drank the usual three cups of coffee, watched the same morning program. I dressed in a typical outfit in my office-appropriate clothes rotation. I fed the cat, kissed my husband, and left for work. As I am still a novice writer, I have to maintain a full-time job...the details of which I will keep to myself for the time being.

On Wednesday evenings, I have a standing social commitment with my writing group. As I mentioned in my last post, I met a wonderful group of ladies during NaNoWriMo in 2013. We meet every Wednesday. Sometimes we actually get some writing done. Usually there is a fair amount of conversation before anything productive happens.

This Wednesday evening was a little different. I got home at the usual time. My husband handled dinner  by making meatball sandwiches (thanks, hon!). As I was gathering my laptop, keys, and wallet, there was a knock at the door. A package about the size of a paperback book was handed to me when I opened the door. I ripped it open.

I was holding the first print copy of my first novel...actually the proof copy, which is not the final result. I had self-published it on Amazon more than a week ago and have had a couple glowing reviews and moderate sales. I had a lot of anxiety about the book and what it could mean for my future. I had a lot of self-doubt. That was the extent of my emotional reaction. Because I was in a hurry to get to my writing group on time, I quickly flipped through it. I noted the tiny, tiny print that needed to be changed. I noticed the margins that were way too big. I noted that there was no author bio on the back, and discovered later that I forgot to click a button on the print-on-demand website. I briefly noticed the beautiful cover before I shoved it in my bag and ran out the door.

I spent much of this evening trying to fix my file to fit the page, to fix the margins, to fix the font. I was so focused on fixing what I thought was wrong with it that I missed something huge:

I was holding the first copy of my first book!

That moment came later, after the day had quieted and all my work had been done. I sat at my dining room table and just held my book. I flipped through it again. Sure, it's not perfect. That's why I ordered a proof to begin with...so that I could fix things before it went live on the website for sale. But it is mine. It is the realization of a dream I have had since childhood. I can't remember a time when I wasn't a storyteller.

Instead of focusing on my fear of remaining in literary obscurity, of never selling a single copy, of getting a bad review, of any of the toxic negativity that comes to mind when I am feeling unsure I am going to just sit here and hold my book. I am going to bask in the surreality of the moment. I may not ever win a Pulitzer or end up on the NY Times bestseller list, but I wrote a book. I am a writer whether I ever receive acknowledgement for that or not.

I have the strongest urge to send my 5th grade teacher a copy of my book (if I knew how to contact her I would!). She signed my yearbook by saying "I hope one day to read one of your novels." Well, she ever reads this post, know that I did it.