I was just sent the first draft of my hardback cover. It's glorious and weird at the same time. Seeing my own picture on the inside flap of a book almost seems incongruous with reality. I find myself asking strange question. Was I meant to be an author? Is this something that was decided at my birth? Have all the decisions I've ever made led to THIS?
This novella isn't my first creative project, but nothing compares to it. Creating a work of fiction forces you to put yourself in a vulnerable position. You have to expose the dark, secret aspects of your mind and soul. As I near the end of this step in my journey, I'm coming to terms with that.
I'll very likely lose old friendships because of my book. I'm certain to gain new ones. I'm not sure there's any way to prepare one's self for that. It's exhilarating and frightening at the same time.
I just want you to know, that I'm doing my best for you. This book will be the finest artwork I am capable of making. It isn't perfect. I'm sure I made mistakes both in the prose and in the concept of it. I'll atone for those down the road.
But for now, I'm going to enjoy this. My face is on a book!