I got the proofs for my book.
Heather and I went through it and so far we’ve found only one problem. Heather will contact Createspace about that and soon I will have actual book-books with my “real” (at least the one I use for writing) name.
And I’ve been invited to do a signing at a local Barnes and Noble. Yes, I, a self-published author, will be part of a local author book signing night late next month. I’m scared, of course. I wouldn’t be normal if I wasn’t scared.
So I’m a published author.
I’ve been that before…short stories, essays, articles, novella.
But now it’s novel length.
I should be ecstatic.
“Should” is the operative word.
I’m too busy with several other projects to think about the reality of it. I have to get my paranormal mystery #2 book finished and edited so both can get out and then start on #3. I have to finish my short story collection. The Arthurian time travel is only partly written. I have at least one other project I’m considering.
In addition to my writing I’m going to take an acrylic painting class and I’ve started another class at Penn State Berks…Women in Writing.
But back to the joy of being a published author…my world has changed, right?
Nope. And I don’t think it’s because it’s a self-published title. I think I would feel this way if it said “Hachette” or “Grand Central” or whatever on the spine.
It’s like when I lost eighty pounds and got “beautiful.” I thought my life would dramatically change for the better.
Nope. The biggest change was all the married men who started to ask me out. But inside I was the same person. The person who viewed herself as overweight.
So, now I have a “real” book, numbered pages and everything. My life should dramatically change.
It won’t. I’ll still be the same person. The one who writes every day. The one who tries to market her work. The one working on the next project. Inside I’m the same person. The person who views herself as…