The adventures of a timid first-time novelist

I'm being published for the first time, and it's not what I expected. In this day and age, we seldom expect "reality," because we've seen so many movies. Movie reality is fluffy and fun, so I prefer to think in those terms.

Back in the day, when I was young, stupid, and vain, I thought getting published meant someone handed me a check for a million dollars and then I made the cover of Newsweek. While enjoying my mudbath, the spa attendant would let me know that George Clooney was on the line, and I'd say, quite carelessly, "Tell him I'll call him back when I get around to it."

Actually, the reality is much better, because I've earned it. And now I'm approaching self-marketing with all the bold verve of a turtle peeking out from its shell.

My publishers, Sandrilyn Publications, are stellar and relentlessly patient with me. When they asked for a headshot, I sent them a snapshot that was of slightly higher quality than if I had just sketched myself as a smiley-faced stick figure. They later (and very politely) asked that I have a professional headshot taken.

So, I'm well out of my safety zone, which is scary as all get-out. I suppose I want all the kudos without the threat of failure--this, I guess, is too much to ask. I'm waxing whiny, here.

Anyway, if George Clooney calls for me, tell him I'll call him back when I get around to it. I'm off to write. Ah, the life blood.

Morrow