This is my first post as a bonafide, real live, puttin’-it-out-there, published novelist. It has been—and still is—quite the ride. For those dressage riders out there, I compare it to the first time (and one of the only times) I got to ride piaffe/passage transitions. Waaaayyy cool!
To think that this madness began innocently enough four years ago as a lark. The lark has become an eagle, and not to beat this metaphor into the ground, but the eagle is soaring. I am published. It’s real. My book is out there, and anyone who has an Internet connection, an ebook app and $1.99 to spare can read my story. I still can’t consistently believe this is really happening to little ol’ me.
It’s thrilling. I am honored when friends tell me they just downloaded Thrown. I’m touched when someone I know writes a glowing review on Goodreads or Amazon. I get all tingly when I see another five-star rating. I am humbled and grateful for all these wonderful people in my life.
Of course, there are not-so-glowing reviews, too. Nothing truly awful (yet!), but not everyone loves my book and it certainly isn’t perfect. If the comments make sense, I make a note and will work to improve my future writings. If I disagree, I let it go.
Now that my first-born is out in the world, I’m revising Jumped (the next book) and trying to resist checking my sales rank on Amazon every four seconds. I have new-author Tourette syndrome, where I involuntarily look at my “author dashboard” to see if there are any happy new reviews or another constellation of shiny gold stars. Ah, obsession. Gotta love it.
It’s all exciting and good and fun and angsty, and if this is what I must endure to be a novelist, so be it. Sign me up. I’ll take the sparkling reviews along with the “meh” reviews, the revisions, the blog tours, the friends checking in to see how I’m doing, the social media cavalcade, the panic that nobody will want to read my writing, the bottle of Veuve my friend Lori sent me, and all the rest. Because I’m a novelist.
And it’s exactly what I want to be.