I gave birth yesterday. For all of my friends who are shaking their head in wonderment that I could achieve such a feat at my age, let me clarify. I launched my book, allowed my “baby” to leave the safe confines of my computer womb, and sent it out into the world. For better or worse, it is now in the hands of readers. And it is scary. Really scary. But it is also exciting. Really exciting. And I am incredibly nervous. If that doesn’t describe the range of emotions that accompanies being a new parent, I don’t know what might.
At first, there was a lot of hoopla and well wishes from friends and family. I was congratulated on achieving a lofty personal goal by the Facebook crowd. I basked in the glory and opened a bottle of wine. Happy and self-satisfied, I toasted myself, much like a marathon runner might upon reaching the finish line. I breathed a sigh of relief. After all, the labor and its accompanying pain was behind me.
And then, it was all over. Just like that. The wave of excitement exploded like a firecracker, accompanied by “oohs” and “ahhs,” and once the show was done, life went on as usual. Doesn't it always? (It is, after all, Independence Day weekend; the analogy seems appropriate.) So now, I wait and wonder and watch for the first reader to return with a verdict. Will I get a text? An email? A message? I log onto Amazon to see if there is a review posted. I whisper a silent prayer that the book will be well received, that the story will be compelling, the characters believable. And I try to keep my insecurities at bay, my doubts that one more round of editing might have made a difference.
Like any new mother, I am filled with hopes and dreams for my baby’s future. And I can’t help it; I am incredibly proud. Happy Birthday, Angelique. Welcome to the world. I hope that you will be happy here and that you will be embraced with open arms. I couldn't ask for anything more.