Right now, I really regret making that little countdown widget on my sidebar, because every time I see it my heart beats a little faster. I mean, I'm UNDER 30 days now. How the crap? I need more time! There's so much I still need to do, and it feels like the hours keep slipping out of my hands.
What's it like being a month from debut? It's kinda like being in survival mode. There's promotion, marketing, and networking to do on top of other writing obligations and deadlines. Pretty much everything that isn't necessary starts falling to the wayside. Like showering. And making a nice dinner. And cleaning. My house is a disaster. My kids are living on Pop Tarts. My poor husband barely sees me, since I'm holed up in my room writing/drawing/answering interview questions/freaking out.
And then your mind starts playing tricks on you. Will anyone even BUY this book? Why are you working so hard when no one will care? How in the world did you used to think someone would pay money for your stories? WILL ANYONE BUT YOUR MOM BE AT THE LAUNCH?
Sometimes I want to throw in the towel and let the whole thing pass by quietly, like a cat slinking through a back alley. If I don't make a big deal out of this, then it won't hurt so much if I don't succeed, right? That's always been my first instinct. Don't care—caring hurts and expectations are dangerous and just move on before you're in too deep.
I hate this part of me. Because I worked almost eight years for this moment, and now that it's breathing down my neck I'm scared to death of it instead of celebrating it. As if being excited will somehow jinx the whole thing.
I hope that when the day arrives I will be past this. I hope that I'll be able to find my book on a shelf and that I will FEEL something. I hope that something will be positive. I hope that, even though so much of this journey hasn't gone the way I hoped, that I will be proud of what I've accomplished. I hope that the day my book comes out will be a big deal. At least to me.
Hope. It's what writers live on, isn't it?