How Unexpected

It wasn't like "they" said it would be

Photo credit: JP

“I’m published” announcements thrill me, even if I don’t know the person. The momentous fact of someone somewhere having achieved this hard won feat is enough to send me over the moon. For years, the chatter among authors during all those swellegant cocktail parties we’re always attending (and why we’re dressed like it’s Paris in the 1920’s I’m sure I don’t know) created an expectation of how one will feel upon publishing a book. It wasn’t like that.

Odds are, if you ask if I’m excited about {fill in the blank} you can reasonably expect an “Oh, my giddy aunt!” followed by rapturous declarations. Thus, I fully expected to set my book into the word and immediately find the nearest table to dance upon. Then it happened, and while there were most decidedly emotions, they did not occur when or appear how I expected them to do.

Frankly, the learning curve of the actual process pretty much sucked the joy out of the actual moment. Oh, it brought satisfaction; the sort you have when you’ve finally reached the summit of a hill with burning thighs and lungs ready to collapse but catch a breath long enough to note the gorgeous view and thank gad at least it’s all downhill from here, but are too tired and sweaty for giddy and sparkly.

Honestly, the fairy-kissed feeling came weeks before, when I took the formatted file into my sweet, local not-a-chain copy shop and they printed out the proofs. I held my words in my hands, appearing as they would in the final print, and my bones shuddered. There were tears.

The all-over chills and rapid breaths also came when my cover artist sent the wrap for the full cover and I saw the bar code on the back. Yes, the overall design left me gobsmacked, but seeing that bar code, man…that’s when I knew she was becoming a real, live book.

It took forever to receive my author copy of the final product and my mood had long since turned from oh-frabjous-day anticipation to it’s-about-bloody-time grumpiness. No time to bother documenting an unboxing when you’re jabbing a scissors into packing tape. (And really, does the world need more unboxings? Just curious.) The irritation in my veins, however, transformed into pulsing joy when my husband held the book, read the first paragraph aloud, and turned toward me with proud tears in his eyes.

What those cocktail conversations left out was what happens after publication. I did not expect that barely a day would go by without texts from friends, often accompanied with a photo of them and the book. This period also brought several old friends back into my life. These exchanges not only affirmed bonds but gave tangible proof that Part B of my dream—having the book in the world—had really and truly come true. Each text, call, or email touches me deeply. And don’t even get me started about the the photo above, evidencing the book on the shelves of Sower Books, an independent bookshop in Lincoln, Nebraska. If ever I question why I’m doing this writing thing, I only have to look at it for the answer.

None of the podcasts or interviews consumed over the years prepared me for the ‘Shut up!” moment which occurred earlier this week. I had commented on another Substackian’s post (hi, Kate Dalby) who in replying mentioned, btw, she’d seen someone reading my book on a beach in Cornwall. The one in England, an entire continent and ocean away. Now, the person in question might well have been someone in my writing group who happened to be in the UK at the time (I just don’t remember where exactly) but whether friend or stranger, it means the individual was able to procure the book in the UK. I set up for worldwide distribution, so it’s not a miracle or anything. But it certainly felt like one.

Nor did they prepare me for the sacred lunch I had with one of my oldest friends in all the land. Though she has been published for decades, we spent the entire meal with me choking on the best cheeseburger I’ve ever eaten while she asked questions about my process for writing fiction. The experience took “feeling seen” to a whole new level. It was also pretty fun to take a moment to sign one another’s books. We’ve been there along every step of each other’s artist journey and that moment went beyond rich. (Thank you, Lorene Edwards Forkner. I love you forever.)

In conclusion, yes. I am pleased-as-punch about turning the corner from writer to author, but the biggest surprise of this early post-publication experience is how it has manifested as quiet fulfillment, punctuated by out-of-nowhere bursts of “Holy shit!” squealy bits. One literal champagne cork popped on May 30th but regular life, with all its messy, irritating, and joyous ways, cranked along as it always does. Except now some of the froth of ‘champagne moments’—the little wins and kindnesses available every day—are tied to having published my Cupboard Child. It’s made these last weeks of spring unforgettable.

Happy Summer Solstice!