Eleven days until my debut novel comes out, and I’m a MESS of emotions.
I’m anxious. I want September 1st to be here, but I also have a sneaking suspicion that the sun will rise the same on that day as it does on August 31st. I theoretically understand that one minute after midnight doesn’t mean the world will have automatically uploaded my story into their heads. My life changes on September 1st … but how tangible will it be?
I’m thrilled. I am so excited that my friends and family are so excited along with me. I’m pumped to celebrate with Addendum Bookstore and my alma mater. I’ve been preparing the schedule and what I want to say, and I feel ready and eager to be front and center. Except I don’t know what to wear. Yet.
I’m overwhelmed. I’ve already learned that Goodreads is not my happy place. It’s weird to hear feedback without having an appropriate avenue to dialogue. Which is fine. It’s just different. I’ve never been in a position before where that’s been true. All of my writing has heretofore had a very localized audience– classmates, writing group, beta readers, etc. Or else it’s my blog, which has a more widespread audience, but where it’s my space and I can dialogue with you guys. Now my book is winging its way into the world, and I just have to sit back and let it happen. For better or for worse.
I’m nervous. What if no one buys it? What if no one likes it? What if it’s completely forgotten about by Christmas? These are really fears and worries of mine, and there is no data or evidence to help predict it one way or the other. I have faith like a mustard seed and prayers that are palms open.
I’m happy. I wrote a book. Early readers seem to like it. I’m happy with it. I’m excited: a dream of mine is coming true! I’m seeing my name pop up around the internet, and every time is like a tiny pat on the back– or a hand on my arm, comforting.
I’m sad. I don’t know why. Because the fear and the doubt and the ever-present anxiety disorder are working me over and whispering mean things to me. I’m sad because I’m already imagining September 2nd, when the party is cleaned up, and many people put their signed copy of Truest on their shelf instead of their nightstand. I’m sad because …
I’m complicated. I’m a woman, a writer, and a human being. Life is hard and exciting and has tons of shades of gray, and I’ve learned to like gray, but that doesn’t mean that gray isn’t still tough. Everything is just very layered and complicated, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.