I should be writing today…or doing edits or suffering throught he dratted day job.
Instead, here I sit, fondling a book.
Over and over…to the point of possibly obsessive-compulsive behavior. It might just verge on the obscene. Definitely, I’ve slid into the realm of heavy petting. And frankely who can blame me with that cover. The fixation on an inanimate object with almost sexual attention probably has a DSMRIII diagnosis, if not a common fetish term.
While I publish in the e-book market, and do fairly well there, there is nothing quite as validating as the tangible, physical manifestation with glossy cover and new book smell. It is visceral. Somehow, it signifies, “I’ve made it.” That name is me. On a book. I can go to Amazon and there it is.
We authors are eternally desperate and sometimes shallow about our need for feedback. Most times what we write disappears in to a void. There are professional reviews, but they can be hit or miss (and not just in content…why one of my books gets dozens of reviews and another gets none, never ceases to bewilder me). There are times when you get fan mail. That is probably one of the most cherished happenings. Someone took a bit of time out of their day, found your email and sent you their thoughts.
Still, the rush of opening that box and seeing my five author copies was like nothing I’d previously experienced in writing. Not my first acceptance. Not my first publication. And honestly, not my first print anthology (anthologies are like a bus…everyone’s on it). I keep looking over at the book, Twice the Cowboy, Twice the Ride and I smile. I write a bit, and look back again. Maybe the gloss will wear off in time.
I hope not.