I think I’ve figured out why I’m not sleeping. And surprisingly, it’s not just because I looked at this photo just before going to bed last night:
Though I’m quite certain that didn’t help. (I’m looking at you, Creamed Corn.)
You see, Interwebz, I finished my book. Or at least I finished a full draft of the thing. And now there are people reading it.
It’s just a handful of people, mind you. But if you get buck naked and do the Running Man in front of five people, are you any less naked than if you do it in front of five hundred? No. And I’m pretty sure there are ample studies documenting that fact. *looks to Wicked Shawn for verification*
So yeah, I’m terrified that these people are going to tell me they hate the book. Or even worse? They’ll read it, hate it, and then feel like they still have to tell me it’s good. Then everyone’s time will have been wasted.
But I can’t lie. It’s a little exciting, too. As I stood at the counter in the copy center, listening to the machines whir away, my heart caught in my chest when the young dude with the goatee set a flat, white, cardboard box in front of me.
Dude. I wrote a book. Like…a book, book. Like a whole motherfucking BOOK. And I don’t think I used the word “vagina” even once.
Then I threw up in my mouth a little as I divided the copies up and shoved them into manila envelopes. Fortunately the post office hadn’t been crowded, because it took the desk clerk a solid five minutes to coax those packages out of my hands. Even after she disappeared into the back to drop them in their appropriate bins, I stood at the window, chewing my tongue, wondering if I could somehow get them back.
…and I haven’t really slept since.
Because right now there are five people holding a fillet of my soul.
Interwebz, can you hear my heart pounding from where you are? I think I might pass out.
Meanwhile, I’m supposed to find an agent. That’s what they tell me anyway. So I’m sending this first chapter all over the place. Which is only like a tiny, chicken nugget of my soul. So maybe give it a read if you’re curious. Then tell everyone you know who happen to be a genius literary agents and beg them to work with me. Then maybe hand me one of those little air sickness bags they have on planes. Also, can you rub my back and throw Dr. Horrible in the DVD player?
And while I’m being all naked and vulnerable (SOO not my best look), I thought maybe I’d show you this photo. Being the whack job that I am, when I lost all my hair I decided my new look needed to be documented. So I called my brilliant photographer friend and he scheduled a photo shoot with a makeup artist and everything. This is one of the photos that came from that day.
Seriously, I need a gingerale and a sleeping pill, STAT.