Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Today Is Your Day

This morning when I woke up at the crack of 6:30, the following saying flashed in my head:



January 7, 2014.  The day I have been waiting for for years.  The day my book actually comes out.

This may sound cheesy, but I just want to document this moment here.  This blog has really become my diary, mainly because I lose all of my diaries, then write in another one, then find the old one and start writing in it.  When I leave all of this to my children someday, it will be a headache for them to decipher.  But the mean little mother in me likes that just a little bit.

So at least I can write here and know that I won't lose it.

I love that saying "it takes ten years to become an overnight success" and that's the way I feel.  Not that I've made this gigantic leap to the best-seller list my first day (I'm no Robertson, for crying out loud), but getting Confessions of a Mediocre Widow to this point has been a long road. 

It's weird that this day is here.  It's been "in the future" in my mind for so long I think a part of me thought it would never come.  So the whole day has been kind of a blur.

This morning I left on a secret mission to my closest Barnes & Noble.  I just wanted to see if it was there.  And then I found it - right smack in the middle of the Biography section, next to a David McCullough book, no less - and I couldn't help but stare.

I'm sure the people around me thought I was crazy and it didn't help that I took out my phone and snapped a picture of my book on the shelf.  I even thought about buying one just to know what it felt like, but I held back (as you can imagine, I have quite a few at home).  I almost couldn't breathe as I looked at it.  Then I walked out of the store, got into my car....

And bawled like a baby.

I had no idea that today would be so emotional and I sure as hell hope I got it all out before I have to speak at my book signing tonight.  Honestly the thing that I kept crying about over and over again was what always brings us widows to tears.

"I wish my husband could be here to see this."

Six years ago, I had no idea I had it in me to do this.  And here I am.  I wish he could be here because I do feel like this book was a collaboration between the two of us - that he wrote this book just as much as I did (okay, maybe not quite.  I mean, the man was an engineer and his grammar was not always the best).

But I did do it.  I saw it through. Just like Dr. Seuss said...today is my day.  I don't want to forget it.  And I don't want it to get lost in one of the 30 diaries I have scattered through my house.

Hang on. I just need to write myself a note for later:

Remember this moment.  Remember what you've done.  This is big and it's okay to be proud of yourself.

Sorry.  Sometimes we all just need to remind ourselves about stuff like that.

 

11 comments:

  1. Congratulations! I read the preview at Amazon and I love your style of writing.

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  2. My book is on the way, can't wait to dive in.

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    1. You know I love your posts. I hope you enjoy it!

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  3. Congrats and Yay! and hugs w/ a tissue...or two

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    1. Love ya, Linda. I hope it only takes one. :)

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  4. Just ordered it on amazon for my kindle but it must have been wonderful to see it on the shelf in hardcover! Congratulations!

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    1. Thank you, Carolyn! Definitely a surreal moment. :)

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  5. Oh wow!! Congrats! Boast about it girl and share it with everyone. And don't apologize for it. This is an amazing accomplishment and one you should be damn proud of. :)

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    1. Thanks, babe! We'll see what happens.... :)

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  6. I’ve been reading your book and have been enjoying it! You've managed to embrace the concept that not everyone grieves in the way that people expect us to.
    Something that gave me a lot of relief was what you wrote about retail therapy... I never lost a husband, but I lost my mother suddenly at age 17. Several months later when I turned 18 I bought a flashy Mazda RX-7. For many years I felt tremendously guilty about that and always wondered what people must have thought. I didn’t realize until later that I was trying to capture a feeling of something I’d lost—normalcy and most of all a sense of innocent happiness that existed before the terrible thing happened and life changed forever! Living with near-constant grief isn’t an easy thing to do. A brief respite from pain shouldn’t be considered such a bad thing right?

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