Yesterday, a box arrived at my house. I knew it was coming. I had tracked it on the UPS site, watching it inch closer. When I got home, it was sitting there waiting for me.
That box sat on the braided rug in my house, and for a moment, I was afraid to open it. I have worked for so long on this book, and the idea of actually holding it in my hands suddenly seemed scary.
Slowly I opened the box, and looked under the packing.
Seeing it in full color, print copies took my breath away. They are so beautiful, and I am so proud and yet the grief is still so strong.
With slightly trembling hands, I picked up a copy and held it in my hands for the first time.
Tonight, I will go through a copy carefully, making sure there are no printing issues. Once that is done, I will be able to order my copies so I can post them for sale on this site, and also have them for book events.
The thrill of holding a book I have written and has been published still hasn’t worn off. In less than a year, I have held four of them after they were published. But this one? This one carries an emotional weight that is hard to describe.
After I posted on Facebook that it had arrived, one of Sam’s friends posted that he (Sam) would have crowed in glee and pride that his mom had written a book — and that made me smile, and I can hear him boasting in my mind.