Less than a week until Child of Fire officially publishes, and I’m in a confused, detached state of anxiety. Today, sending an email to someone, I fussed with the text of it so much that I ended up sending a completely blank message. Seriously, there was nothing in it at all.
Blah blah about a first novel and stress behind the cut.
I sorta wish I were one of those people who get all jittery and excitable when I’m nervous. At least then people would recognize what was going on. Instead I’m distracted and forgetful and withdrawn. Worse, certain kinds of input are sensory overload; last night I practically ran out of the kitchen because Malcolm Gladwell was telling a story about a deeply embarrassing moment in his life and I couldn’t stand to listen for another frigging second.
I yelled my wife’s name, and she responded “What?” as though she’d done something wrong. I immediately apologized to her, rushed into the bathroom and shut the door.
Because my own book coming out in a week? No big, right? A story on the radio about a faux pas? Un-fucking-bearable.
My wife has also been trying to arrange something nice for me for Book Day. At one point, she wanted to rent a car so we could drive to all the bookstores in town to take pictures and sign copies. (That didn’t work out.) Now she’s trying to come up with something new. I keep telling her it’s fine, don’t fuss, we don’t have to make a big deal of this, but she won’t be deterred. Yesterday, she presented me with a homemade week-long tear-off calendar to count down to Book Day, and I was so touched that I just stood in my living room staring at it.
And now I’m at my day job, where we’re short-handed and slammed, and I want to jump up from my chair and sprint out the door. The library is just down the street. Isn’t it gorgeous and crazy? Why can’t I spend my days there?
Time to go home. Maybe I can get to be early tonight.