People have asked me, in an almost constant stream, aren’t I excited about my book coming out? Even aside from the fact that I’m rather reserved with expressing my enthusiasm (I simply do not understand the people who actually scream and leap around when they are excited), I’ve had a whole lot more to take care of in the lead up to release day. I haven’t been so worried that I couldn’t still feel eager, but at the same time, most of the nervousness I’ve had is that distant roar of panic instead of glee. So little time and so much to do, and a drive to do it all well.
But I’m running out of other responsibilities. I’ve crossed almost everything off the list. The first shipment of books coming to me is taken care of. Incidental tasks are completed. The Market on The Damning Moths website works fabulously. I’ve put up sample chapters and illustrations to the delight of many readers (and once again, thank you for the wonderful feedback). A free short story was made available. I’ve remembered to send updates to the mailing list, and finalise the ebook formatting, and complete a rather intimidating amount of business-end work.
There’s nearly nothing left to distract me.
In two days, my first novel will be available. Pre-orders will be sent out. Guests will come to the launch party on Sunday. I will sign bookplates and posters (both part of the pre-order freebies), and it’s both all too real, and a little unbelievable. Sure, I’m excited, if you dig under the veil of bewilderment.
I’ve asked some of my long-time author friends: does it get easier? Does release day ever stop being this vibrating, ruffled thing of delight and fear? There’s a reason they are my friends, because they were utterly honest with me. Even someone whose novels are bestsellers and internationally renowned warned me that, no, launches don’t get less unsettling. They just become more familiar in their terrible wonder.
And yet, here I am, ready to do it all again for the subsequent books. Stars above.