I realized this morning that I can’t fathom it. I can’t yet see my book as a book. I can’t imagine people—more than the handful who have—reading these pages. To be honest, the idea of people reading this book I’ve worked so hard on thrills me and scares me in equal measure. To put it simply: It FREAKS ME OUT.
This feels like the first book I’ve ever written.
In that it means that much to me.
It feels like I’ve never published a thing before this.
In that it feels new all over again.
Believing that this manuscript will become a living, breathing book is like believing in Santa Claus, who I have no memory of believing in, ever, as I mostly remember staying up late at night to *be* Santa for my baby sister, which was the best part of our half-Jewish hey-maybe-we-should-be-celebrating-Hannukah Christmas over the years, and now I wonder if my mom liked it because she enjoyed having me wrap all the presents, huh?
I’m not sure when you start believing in a thing like this. When you hold the book in your hands? When you see it in a store? On the shelves of the library? When you duck and cower at your first book review? When someone you’ve never met tells you they’ve read it?
I wonder when publishing a book will seem normal. Maybe never for me.
I feel like I’m living on a fantasy island right now. Me and Santa and a Leprechaun. It’s that ridiculous.