Published

I thought I knew how I was going to feel.   Why wouldn’t I?  I’d imagined this day ever since the journey began, and that’s nine years ago.  This was no personal, never-to-publish, cathartic work.  I’d just finished one of those.  In June 2004, when I took the first timid steps into The Corridor, I dreamed that one day others---you even---might read the story.  And then, best of all, maybe you and your friends and I could chat about it.  People person that I am, that’s what I was most looking forward to.  Intimate gatherings.  I imagined (almost) nothing would feel better.

But today, when Amazon first posted my Kindle book,

Kindle

followed soon after by the paperback,

Paperback

I felt…well…I didn’t really feel anything.  I’m trying, digging down for those feelings that must be there.  But I have yet to unearth them. 

Maybe I’m scared, I told myself.  Maybe readers will freak out.  Here I am, naked before the world.  The Corridor fleshed out a part of me that I let few see.  Or maybe no one will read it.  Or worse yet, readers won’t react.  Perhaps I’ll have no long-anticipated conversations.   

Nah!  That’s not it.  I’m not scared.  I’m the gold medal winner in fear recognition. 

Maybe I’m overwhelmed.  Too much, too fast.  I mean it was just today that Amazon said, “how about publishing a Kindle version”.  So I rebuilt all the Corridor maps, and the formatting, uploaded, set a $0.99 tantalizing price and pressed the publish button.   And then, I get this text from Linda saying my book’s on Amazon and I think she means Kindle but when I check---wading through a backwash of books with Corridor in the title---its Kindle AND the $14.24 paperback.  Yes, I’m stunned. 

But I’m not overwhelmed. 

Believe it or not I think I’m sad.  It makes no sense whatsoever—I feel so relieved to be done with writing and re-writing all seven versions and editing and copyediting and proofing and self-publishing---but truth is I feel grief.  It’s over.   By far the biggest project in my life and it’s over.    At least this part of it.    So I guess that’s OK.  Whether it makes sense or not, I can let myself grieve.  Out on the prairie maybe, with the breathtaking lupine.   Probably not with a smoking hot chainsaw.

My mom called today to tell me how much she liked the book (she qualified for the Mother’s Day galley copy) and said I should keep writing.  As appreciative as I was, I could feel her disappointment when I responded with a sigh.   “If people really like it, I’ll write another.  Some day.”  I told her.  “Right now, I want to reap the harvest.” 

So yes, read the book if you're drawn to it.  And then---please, please, please---invite me to a conversation.  With your book club.  Your church.  Your beer buddies.  Your school.  I could spend hours with just you and a cup of tea.   Don’t let distance daunt you.    I love Santa Rosa.  Galway.  Even Wisconsin.  And there’s always Skype. 

Thinking about a conversation with you, now that starts to get me excited. 

P.S.   If nothing else, you’ll finally figure out what Rah-dur means when you read it.