Today marks a year since “Pieces” was born, a year since I sat in an empty courtyard in the back of a bookstore somewhere in Brooklyn, surrounded by a handful of friends, frightened and excited about what the next months would bring.
The last year has been a journey on all levels, the miles I traveled, physically, emotionally, and mentally. I have aged, I have grown, I have cried, laughed, and screamed, and learnt a bunch of damn good lessons.
When you publish a book for the first time, you can choose two roads. One is the traditional one, where an agent sells your book to a big publishing house and you feel like you’ve given up a child for adoption. The second is the hybrid/indie way, where after of what feels like years of being in labor, you finally give birth to this baby that ends up needing more care and attention in its first year than quadruplets.
The other day, a woman at the playground asked me how to get her book published, she was thinking of writing her life story. My instinct was to shout “don’t do it!”, but instead I explained to her the what the journey held.
No journey is really a journey if it’s simply full of success, glamour, and profit. You must lose something along the way, then find something grander as you travel, you must be alert, hopeful, smart, and open, and you must learn, learn, and learn.
I thank all of you who have walked up this road by my side, all of you who have bought the novel, reviewed the novel, emailed me, posted for me, shared your thoughts with your friends and family, hollered and raved. Here’s to my baby’s second year!