Hahaha. Okay, seriously, I’ve been editing for hours and now need a break.
(Alternate titles for this post included: “The Last Battle” ala Narnia, and “Ch-ch-ch-anges!” sung by Jermaine Clement in the style of David Bowie.)
It’s really weird to think that my book will be out tomorrow. It’s hard to catalog everything that’s going through my head. Perhaps it will be easier if I give you a list of physical ailments. There’s a 1 cm x 1 cm cube in the lower right hand portion of my brain that’s trying to telepathically control the world into liking my book. It’s going EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, or brewing an aneurysm, one of those two. My back is in knots, and my stomach acid is probably giving me varices. I wouldn’t be surprised if my stomach slipped off of my esophagus entirely and I bled out right here.
BUT I HAVE THE WORLD’S BIGGEST SMILE ON MY FACE.
Which is pretty much counterbalancing the other problems.
It’s weird. So weird. I’ve been writing for fifteen years, waiting for this moment. And now it’s here, and honestly, a part of me is scared. I can’t believe I’m showing my book to the world. It’s what you hope and dream of as a writer — every writer writes to be read, even if only by themselves — but it’s also just so very weird to put yourself out there. Nightshifted’s really emotionally raw. It’s not me, but it’s partially me, and it’s my book, and please like it. Please. (But also — *tough look* — I don’t care if you don’t, says the small inner voice that’s gotten me this far. That inner voice chick is tough and mean, and thank goodness too, or I would not be here, writing at all, muchless writing things for you.)
I did the best most honest book I could do. I wrote the book only I could write, not just because I’d been told that a jillion times in writing classes, but because it was the thing on fire inside of me that I had to get out. Nightshifted is the story it would have killed me not to share.
And so here we are, dear internet, an hour away from its US release.
I think the only thing left to say, is bring it.