I’m in an emotional mood. Tomorrow – well, tonight, at midnight – I become a published author. I have written a book, and edited that book, and watched it go on sub, and watched it get a book deal, and edited it some more, and then I’ve watched it slowly surface into the world. It’s called LYING BENEATH THE OAKS. I’ve reached the stage of the process where I choke up.

Tomorrow, I have a book in the world. For the rest of my life, and for as long after that as anyone remembers me, I’ll be a published author.
I know not everyone feels the way I do about books, so let me try to explain. When I was young, before kindergarten even, I read constantly. My parents would call my name and it was like the sound came from the end of a tunnel and tugged me back into the world with a not-entirely-welcome jerk. I lived in those worlds and had truer friendships with Anne of Green Gables and Pippi Longstocking and Blossom Culp and Beezus and the Railway Children and the All-of-a-Kind Family than I did with plenty of the real girls I saw around me every day. They meant everything to me. I couldn’t get a new supply of books fast enough. I’d mourn every time I exhausted a loved author’s oeuvre. 

As I aged, the passion didn’t change; only the authors. I learned about romance from Kathleen Woodiwiss and Danielle Steel. By the time I got the birds and the bees talk, it was old news thanks to my surreptitious trips to my mom’s bookcase. As a young adult, I lived on ramen and my library card. As a newly-employed professional, I moved dozens of boxes of books from place to place for years. I’d have done without furniture first.

I never tried to write a book. I didn’t even take a creative writing class after the required unit in middle school. There’s a valley between appreciation and creation I never dared to cross.

That was then.

My children were born. I bought them bookcases and packed them full of picture books and then chapter books. We read every night, like clockwork. They learned to read on their own, but I read all seven volumes of Harry Potter aloud to my youngest anyway. He was at the age when he preferred it. Their schedules began to fill with sports and music lessons. I had time I hadn’t had before.

One night, on a walk in the summer of 2012, my husband laughed at the description I related of a woman I’d seen in town. Neither of us knew her, but I felt like I did. I loved making up backstories and telling them to my husband. He pulled up short and said, flatly, that I’d be wasting a gift if I didn’t try to write a book.

So I sat down and tried. I wrote two chapters and read them back. They were horrible: flat and meandering and lifeless. I closed the file and forgot about them for over a year, when it occurred to me that writing and editing were two different things. I could do both. I never looked back.

Publishing a book is a dream. After tomorrow, maybe someone else will get lost in the pages of my book. Maybe my book will travel from starter apartment to starter home with someone else. I’ve completed the circle. It took a lifetime to get here, but here I am.

Tomorrow.

I’m just over a week away from being a Published Author. In a week, my words will be out there for people to read. Yes, I’m stressed out. (Husband: “You look miserable! This is supposed to be fun!” Me: *thinks about the possibility that I have failed to do the ONE THING that will cause my book to sell and wishes hard that I knew what that one thing is*)
I’m going to put aside the stress for a few minutes to reflect back on these last few months before my book release and talk about the things that most surprised me.

• EDITS. I think I expected the edit letter to disclose the closely-guarded secrets of How To Make My Book Good in some kind of glorious ray of holy light complete with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Nope. There were a few specifics, but essentially the edits were “make the middle move faster” and “we don’t like the end—rewrite it.” If you’re assuming that an editor knows better than you how to improve your book and will tell you every word to change, think again. In my case, my editor acted more as a coach than as a substitute. He called me on my laziness and made me do it myself. Nobody is out there waiting to fix your book for you.
  
• PRE-RELEASE COUNTDOWN. I thought this would be far more exciting than it was. Authors on Twitter (including me) issue these breathless declarations of every little thing, and it makes everyone feel that their lives are so exciting that they can barely keep up with it. This may be true for huge releases. In my case, I was thrilled any time I had anything to report on Twitter (cover, blurbs, ARCs, etc.). There are long stretches where nothing happens and no one seems to care that you Have a Book Coming Out but you.
• STRANGER REVIEWS. I’ve written a lot of manuscripts and I have a lot of beloved CPs. I know well the joy of sharing work and having someone tell me they loved it. What I was not at all prepared for was the intense thrill of having Complete Strangers Who Don't Know Me At All read my book and gush. There’s a certain belief that your friends and family will tell you nice things about your book and that they are lying through their teeth because they love you, but I cannot describe the absolute elation of learning that the Author’s New Clothes are, in fact, actual clothes.
  
• COMMUNITY SUPPORT. I’m part of two communities, and one of those I knew would be supportive. The writing community on social media is one of the best I’ve ever seen. They’ve cheered my long road to publication and have been there every step of the way. What I didn’t expect, however, was what happened when I admitted to being a writer in my actual In Real Life community. Once I announced the book deal, word spread fast. I’ve been shocked to my core by the support and genuine happiness that people around me have shown. I never expected to be asked about my book by the gas station cashier, the courtroom bailiff, my son’s math teacher, my pastor, my husband’s former high school classmates, or the man who stocks the shelves at the grocery store. To be completely honest, it’s been a lot like the end of It’s a Wonderful Life when George Bailey’s community turns out en masse to donate to his debt. I had no idea I was a part of so many lives.
• And last: THE EMOTIONAL IMPACT. See above. Every time someone asks me about my book (and especially as we get closer to the release), I choke up. Why? Because I had no idea what I had to say was of interest to anyone, and I feel so honored and touched that people want to read what I wrote. I won’t lie: there are days when I am terrified and anxious about what they will think when they read it, or whether I’ll get a chance to tell another story. It’s worth it. I’m aware as well that I’m now a part of the history of books: I’ve added one small story to the great pile of literature. Books are my lifeblood, and now I get repay the favor.
  
  

SEVEN MORE DAYS. Gulp.