Oh man. What the heck have I gotten myself into? If you think that finally publishing a book takes away your doubt, don’t hold your breath. I’ve had more doubt since my book has started the cycle of pre-ordering than I ever had when I was writing and editing. I’ve had trouble sleeping and my stomach is always in knots. ALWAYS!
Why should I care though? I shouldn’t because I wrote a beautiful story about two people who fall in love despite everything that comes up against them. I love Owen and Viera. They are like that couple you wanted to fall in love. They are the ones you set up on a blind date just so they could meet each other and get a chance to talk. They are two souls who needed to join.
So I should be happy with that … right?
I am happy with that part. I’m ecstatic that I’m a published author. How many people can really say they made that jump? Okay, more and more, but still I wear it as a badge of honor. I’m the only person I know who is a published author. I lie, I know a few, but still it’s awesome.
What worries me is the hope I’ve hung on the peg of Our Hearts. It’s the hope of a teenage girl sitting in her room and creating stories. It’s the hope of a college student who couldn’t imagine what a real adult life was like. It’s the hope of a mother of three who has worked the same job for 20 years and needs a break to be with her family. It’s all that hope and more.
I just can’t put into words the feelings that are curled inside of me. Is this the next step in the life I always wanted to live? Is this what my true calling has always been and I’ve been ignoring it for a too long? Did I wait too long in my life to start this career?
I don’t know, but I have to try. Stories burn inside of me until they are ready to spill out. I’m such a glutton for punishment that I’m already outlining my NaNoWrimo novel. I have to tell stories or I will just be the husk of a person I was when I shut the stories down and decided to live a “normal” life.
I can’t be that person anymore. I’m an author.
Until next time, dream.