I about cried last night. My proof copy of the Big Inch came to my door. (Thank you, Mr. Chumley, my UPS driver.) Seeing the beautiful cover, the text all lined up like little soldiers, and feeling the heft of it was poignant. I’ve been writing for 20 years, and this is my debut novel. Depending on how the book is received, you might say I was a 20-year, overnight success. Or not. All it takes is one single reader. A spark that lights a fire. A conversation that launches a groundswell. Or a bad review that put an X over my title. I’m an optimistic person, I know my mother will buy a few copies.
The thing is, it’s freeing. This realization of a dream, this completion of a cycle, this finished novel. I’ve been meaning to do it for years. And now it’s done. And waiting on one single reader.