|The NINJA ALEX’s Brainchild|
I remember when I was waiting to hear back from a publisher about the first book I’d written. Like all writers who have researched, written, and re-written their manuscripts, I really wanted to have it published. That would mean I’d succeeded in doing something and doing it well enough that someone besides my husband, my kids, and the family dog would let me read to them.
When I finally heard back, and they wanted a full, I did my little dance and sent that book off into the big world. Then I waited. And if you’re a writer, you understand waiting. The house sparkled from all my energy and angst. The dog smelled perfumy from too many baths. Dinners at our house during that time are still legend and longed for.
Then I had a call. Back in those days, editors sometimes called. Mine did. She offered me a contract. I, of course, told her I had to think about it. Naawt!
The book came out the next year. I went to New York to meet the real published peeps and the want-to-be-published peeps, and I wallowed in my publishedness. The reality of what being published meant hadn’t hit me yet. It soon did.
I discovered that not everyone thought my book was as fabulous as my dog had. I discovered not many people even knew I’d written a book. I discovered I had to do something called “blogging” and create a Facebook account, then there were 140 character challenges on Twitter to master. And that’s when Insecurity arrived at my door with its luggage. It took over the guest room and is quite comfy there. However, if I feed it, do its laundry and tuck it in at night, we co-exist, especially since I found that I was not the only writer who had one of these guests.
So that’s my story. I’m an insecure writer. I’ve accepted that, and I’ve moved on to go through several different publishing experiences. It has been a odd route, but interesting.
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