Holding Your Novel
I got the proofing copy of my novel in the mail yesterday. Holding your own book in your hands for the first time is surreal. So is flipping it open and looking at words that you vaguely remember writing, but still feel alien and strange. Some of it seemed like it was written by someone else – I literally cannot remember writing those words, even though I know exactly the scene it represented. Flipping it open to a random page, I would see phrases that chunked like a frozen brick on a sidewalk, while others that sounded almost literary.
Lady Aravan kept asking how it felt. My face must have an odd expression because she kept asking me, but each time I could only shake my head or shrug or stammer an incoherent sentence or just say, “it feels weird.” It did. It does. A book with my name on the spine is sitting in my bag right now. I wrote every word. It tells a story and has a plot. Many times the character names even stay consistent. I keep looking at it. It still doesn’t seem real – and let’s face it, it’s self-published, so it’s not like I’m walking into Barnes & Noble and seeing it on a shelf. It’s not the final copy either. I revised it today and resubmitted it based on how it looked, changing fonts and margins and chapter headings and things like that. So I’m waiting for it to be accepted again so I can order another proof copy, which I will wait impatiently for. Still, it’s close. I’m excited.