I went out to collect the mail, and found a small package in the mailbox – my book, back from the printers! My real, actual, physical, touchable, super-shiny BOOK! (Colour balance in the photo is a bit off – glossy cover and all that. But still!)
It mainly feels strange. It’s my book, absolutely, but … now I understand the look on my mother’s face when I got married. Does that sound idiotic? It’s its own creature now. Separate from me.
I knew what the package must be as soon as I saw the OUP label on the back. And yes, I sat there looking at it for a good half hour before I decided that I was going to open it. And part of me is terrified by it – no going back now. No last-minute changes, no sudden disavowals. I’m a poet, with an actual collection. Not ‘maybe’, not ‘one day’, not even ‘soon’. Now. Here. Bold as brass, and absolutely real. My. First. Book.
How do I feel? I have no idea.
Go well, little book.