If you show someone something you’ve written, you give them a sharpened stake, lie down in your coffin, and say, ‘When you’re ready’. – David Mitchell

Today I held my book, Grow Damn It, in my hand for the first time. It was not only surreal but surprisingly emotional. One of those freakish moments when time actually stands still. 

I admit, I wanted someone to film me opening the box, as thousands of first-time authors have done before me, and plaster it across the internet. I thought I could capture forever that first glimpse of my dream sliding out of the box and into my hand.

But that did not happen.

We were driving home from a weekend at the lake, both of us captive to our own issues, and the infamous box sitting innocently on the porch was opened with a kitchen knife. Oddly, I was almost afraid to reach inside, as if a snake would emerge from the bubble wrap and bite me.

When I dared to pull one out, it was smaller than I had imagined, slim, with my name boldly stamped across the bottom. 

I have no idea what to do with so many copies of the same book, but more so, I have no idea what to do with all these emotions threatening to escape my attempts at containment.

After placing a copy of Grow Damn It on the mantel, I feel conflicted, as if some sort of emotional warfare was stirring just below the surface. This is not at all the reaction I envisioned, but life rarely proceeds as expected.

When Larry slips out to visit his parents, I stand naked (metaphorically) before that damn book and cave to the sentiments that had been threatening my composure all weekend. 

I thank God sincerely, quietly, and profusely. 

What an incredible privilege it is to write, to be published, and to watch your dream become a reality. 

I’m no spring chicken, it’s sort of a now-or-never situation.

Deeply humbled and overly nostalgic, I whisper to my deceased parents, “I wish you were here,” and then I stand there, cradling the little book and crying like an idiot. 

I don’t know why, but I felt much better after my little sobfest. Don’t we all?

It’s as if I had properly honored the occasion and acknowledged the significance of this tiny moment, allowing all that pent-up gratitude to flow through me and into the world.

Running my hand across the cover, I read through the acknowledgments, and fan the pages as if a dear friend. It’s a book, not an entity, but it feels so real. Beloved.

It’s an odd thing to put your work into the world because you’re not only dealing with the fear of failure but exposure to a wider audience.

As Margaret Atwood claims, “Publishing a book is like stuffing a note into a bottle and hurling it into the sea.” Who knows where it will land or how the message will be received? 

You have to be able to withstand bad reviews, piss-poor Amazon rankings, and technical frustrations as you struggle through the Oz-like world of self-marketing, complete with poisonous poppy fields, flying monkeys, and a totally fake magician behind the curtain. 

My kids planned a family Zoom call on Thursday morning, my official launch date, which coincides with the beginning of Lent. I’m not sure if that is a good thing. I mean, how does a book compete with suffering, temptation, and death?

The truth is I look forward to being together as a family, I need them, more than they’ll ever know, because I don’t want to stand here, naked, alone, and losing my shit. When did I become so insecure?

These are the people who cushion my life, especially when I’m brought to my knees, and I’m forever grateful.

Larry gets back, grabs a copy of the book right out of the box, and sits down to read it.

I say, “you’re reading it?”

He says, “yes, I’m going to read it.”

“Right in front of me.”

“Yes.”

That seems somehow troubling. 

“Don’t bend it.”

“It’s a book. I’m bending it.”

I watch him from the corner of my eye, his expression is hard to read as he grazes intently through the pages.

Ten minutes later, he says, “I found an error.”

“Oh shit, don’t tell me.” I frown and say, “No, no, tell me.” And then, after a short pause, I say, “I don’t want to know.”

“I’ll keep the errors to myself.”

“That would be better.”

He returns to his reading, me to my blog, as the wind howls fiercely outside. It’s as if the weather is mimicking my emotional interior, ushering in our next storm, and suddenly the power goes out. 

Knowing I’m superstitious, but hoping this is not a scathing message from God, I brush those feelings off like the lights.

Larry heads out for his Tuesday night right with the guys. 

Damn! The next thing I know, my phone is dead, the internet is down, and I can’t make coffee. Does this sound vaguely familiar? 

I find myself alone in the dark with my little book.

By five o’clock, the house is freezing, I ignite the fire in the sitting room, and pour myself a glass of wine. I have no idea why I’m feeling so forlorn when I should be bubbling over with excitement as if champagne. I agree, sitting alone in the dark might have something to do with it. 

As Nora Ephron notes, “Insane people are always sure that they are fine. It is only the sane people who are willing to admit that they are crazy.”

I’m rescued from my own malaise by my granddaughter Audrey, who comes over to take a hot bath at our house after swim practice because we still have hot water despite the power outage. Her lips are blue. I fill the tub with hot steaming water, bring her a fresh towel, and sit with her while she soaks in the tub. She tells me about her day, describes some new kid at school, and tells me about the stories she’s been concocting in her head. 

I listen to every word. 

It’s what I needed. An innocent girl with a sweet smile and unconditional love. Isn’t that what we all want? To be loved for who we are and what we do regardless of the misspelled words, the mistakes, and the frailties of being human. 

Who knew all these emotions would come with the unpacking of a simple box? Life is peculiar. As Zora Neale Hurston says, “the idea of attempting a book seemed so big that I gazed at it in the quiet of the night but hid it away from even myself in daylight.”

I crawled into bed early tonight, all those emotions hijacked my appetite, and I was strangely exhausted. 

I think I’m waiting for that sharp stake to plunge through my life, impale the dream, so to speak, but the box has been opened, and all my misspelled thoughts have come kicking and screaming into the world. It’s been a labor of love, an arduous birth, but something was born, and all I can say is I hope it’s magical. 

Thank you seems miserably inadequate, it’s lacking the proper expression or the fullness of what I’m feeling. But that’s all I have in the face of all your preorders, encouraging messages, shout-outs, generosity, and support. I’m Living in the Gap, my gratitude runneth over, join me, let me know how your week going?

Grow Damn It is now available at:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Black Rose Writing