I've been waiting for weeks for a copy of my book, Beyond the Edge, to arrive in my mailbox. A couple of my friends had already received their orders from Amazon.ca. There should be a box of some free copies from the publisher arriving anytime now. But it seemed, until today, that I was destined to be the last one to hold a copy of my own work in my shaking hands.
But it finally arrived today! As I opened the box and took it out, the entire situation seemed unreal. I was holding a book I had written, in my hands! A beautiful book, with a beautiful, sexy man that I know, on the cover. A book that, although it is not exactly the sort of book I always envisioned in my dreams of authorship, is still a book filled with inspired, intelligent and worthy prose.
When I was fourteen I received an honourable mention for a one-act play I wrote for a local contest. It was exciting and I was proud of myself for a little while. And then my, at the time, pessimistic outlook took over and I thought, well, it was only one of five honourable mentions. I didn't actually get first, second or third place. I can't be a very good writer after all.
To hold this beautiful paperback book in my hands, means so many things to me. I'm a print author now. It's the beginning of a dream career that would not have been possible without the support of so many people - my husband, my family, my friends.
Four years ago, when I was diagnosed with MS at the age of thirty-nine, no-one, least of all me, expected that I would fulfill one of my deepest dreams in the matter of a few years. But realizing one's own perilous mortality definitely lights a fire under even the most lackadaisical rear end.