It’s an odd feeling actually. Excitement, tinged with fear — normal for all writers. There are always those what if’s. It’s my first novel so what if: people don’t like it? there are errors even though we’ve edited a million times? I make no sales beyond friends and family? people in Oklahoma read it and hate it? I never recoup my investment?

On the other hand! It is exciting to see four years worth of blood, sweat and tears come to fruition. When I held that first copy in my hand last week, I was stunned. This was my writing, my thoughts and ideas and words. I felt proud as well. There were so many times I could have stopped. When it was only a group of short stories and I couldn’t see it as a novel at all. Luckily, my mentor and professor, Patrick, said, oh, yes it is. When I got my fortieth rejection letter from an agent. Then went to a presentation by a Phoenix attorney and Amazon author on her third book and she said, yes you can self publish and do well. All those days when the words just wouldn’t come. All those scenes that my son said didn’t work. So many times. But I didn’t. I just kept plugging along step by step.

The house is still on 4th street. I should notify neighbors I suppose. I only owned it for a couple of years but I have such fond memories of that house. It’s just as it is described in the book. Those steps up to the attic were narrow and steep and that little room under the front dormer was just a dusty little room. Imagination is a wonderful thing.

I hope people who read it will enjoy it and not find it too literary, or too historical or too (God forbid) boring. Before any of those fears come back, I’m going to treat myself to a glass of champagne and relish the moment when my very first book was published.