When I tell people I wrote a book, Alive and Fixable, they look at me funny like I don’t speak English and they have no idea what I’m talking about. “Ah, ok, cool.” And then they look away and bring up the weather or vacation plans. I can understand not knowing what to do with a statement like that since only 1% of all the people who say they want to write a book actually do it. It’s not like we have much practice in responding to a new author like we might meeting a newly minted marathoner or stage singer, something more plausible or relatable.

If I add, “I’m on Amazon,” suddenly the statement, “I wrote a book,” becomes more credible. “Ooooooh!…Hey, how’d ya do that?”

Then there was the opposite crowd, the people who weren’t thinking about Amazon, but believed in me before the book was even finished. They were more anxious for the writer to wrap up the writing than the writer herself. I was super motivated by the encouragement and kept thinking about how to tell a compelling story while pedaling my spin bike or swimming laps.

Now that the book is out, other friends are sending the nicest texts or email messages about how darn proud they are of me for writing a book, sometimes twice! ”Miss Author!” And one response that makes me laugh every time and I don’t have a solid answer, “Who’s going to play you in the movie?”

My excited writer friends can barely stand still next to me because it’s the dream we’ve been chasing, writing class after writing class. It’s as though they want to pinch themselves to believe somebody broke out of the solitary confinement of writing.  The virtual hugs and high-fives on facebook pack a loving punch. We know the long and arduous journey it takes to write an essay let alone pages and pages of words that we hope are near perfect and worthy of a book cover.

I got a really big surprise from my neighbor from my teenage years who suddenly showed up on my comment feed for my blog. I used to babysit her kids at 6 AM so she could golf while it was cool in the summer. I recognized her name immediately and got all tingly with her words of how much I remind her of my parents, my witty mom especially, and how proud my parents would be of me too.

My last surviving uncle wrote back to me after I announced I had a book in the annual holiday letter. He’s 97 or 98, we’re not sure. In his best, shaky handwriting, memories of crashing his bike into a skinny tree came flooding back. In just a few words, he wrote about learning to ride and pedaling for ten miles for a hamburger, just above the Nativity scene in his Christmas card, the kind a good Catholic would send. I’m holding on to that card. Even Hubby was deeply touched.  POW.

I know I am only getting started, but I can’t help but feel POWerful with pats on the back for just getting the book written.

My next hope, the words inside the book make a more dazzling impact than making it on to Amazon.

Scrapbook Gold

 

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