A journal entry from months ago:
April 30th, 12:04am. The laptop glows in our darkened kitchen and I hear only muffled sounds – small swells of laughter from the basement as Ken hosts a late-night birthday party for friends, Bernie re-positioning underneath my chair into the shape of a question mark, the dining room clock ticking, ticking, ticking.
I turned in my final book edits tonight.
I don’t know if it was ready, but I was ready.
It’s hard to change what’s changing you. It’s hard to know when you’re finished with something so big, so personal. There are always cuts to make. There are always sentences to fix. There are a million ways to do better.
At some point, I suppose you just have to accept that it’s fine. That it’s better than fine – that it’s good, even. That it will never be perfect, and wrinkling your brow over switchbacks/timelines/commas/colons will do nothing but delay the gift you wanted to give in the first place.
The gift you wanted to receive, too.
In truth, I am terrible at self-promotion. I still hold this oddly-placed belief that what will be will be, that these things work themselves out, that whoever is meant to read my words will read my words with or without any prodding on my part.
Writing the book changed me a little, and anything else feels like greed.
Is this just fear speaking? Is this my mind twisting itself into a thinly-veiled version of humility? Is this my heart’s way of protecting itself, of forming a barrier of pride, a hardened shell of protection, a shrug of the shoulders, a Canadian ‘Eh?’
So what if no one reads it, eh?
Writing this book was hard. It was personal and (here comes a widely over-used word:) vulnerable, and I simply don’t know how else to explain it. I was raw afterward. I am raw afterward.
I don’t know if I did this story justice, if I gave my story justice. I don’t know if I chose the right words, the right format, the right perspective, the right structure.
But I like it, and I’m sending it away.
Ken is wiser than me, by far, and back in October of last year when I first hit ‘Send’ on the original manuscript, I spent the entire day picking at my cuticles, questioning, doubting, fearing the worst.
What if I missed something? What if I left something out, something necessary, something the book needed to have a pulse or a rhythm or at the very least, a good and working PLOT?!
And because Ken is wiser than me, by far, he said this:
A book is never finished. It’s simply published.
And of course he was right. Of course a book isn’t finished until its writer is finished, but it is published, and in this case, will be published, on January 10th, to be exact.
I’m scared to say this, but I like this book. I love this book. I think (hope) you’ll love this book, too.
It’s here, if you’d like to send a gift to The Future You in 2017.
And I’m here, thanking you for it all.
p.s. There are these things called launch teams (I’m evergreen; bear with me), and if you’d like to help promote the book in any way/shape/form, please join here by next Wednesday!