In which I share my experiences.

I didn't know it would be this hard.

Really. It seemed easy. You have an idea or you remember a time or place that would make a good story. You put it on paper. You send it to someone. They love it. They sell it.

Life is good.

And you know? Life is good in that respect. I hesitate to even say it's hard, because even though it's hard it's the best hard ever. You know?

(And yes, I realize that could really sound dirty if you tried. So don't try okay?)

I didn't think I would sell my book so quickly. Hell, I didn't know if I'd sell it ever. Things happened fast and they continue to happen on hyper-speed, and I'm actually really grateful for that. For all of it.

Someone told me once that all writers are attention whores. I used to think that maybe that was true, but then when I had to start compiling lists of people to send press releases to and my throat closed up and I started to shake? I realized that maybe not all of us are. That maybe there are people who would go on reality shows and show their boobs to all of America and maybe they would think this was a walk in the park but a lot of people, and I am one of them, sort of freak out about all the other stuff that comes along with this. And God bless those people who aren't afraid. I admire the hell out of them even if I don't care about their boobs.

Because, and I know how bizarre and backward this will sound, the easiest part of all of this? Was writing the book.

I laugh at myself as I type that because, um, hello? I've been writing The Great American Novel since 2006 and basically, failing miserably at it. I go back and forth between loving the protagonist and hating her and wanting her dead. I read it and think, "Why did I write this? It sucks! Thus, I suck!"

Because, y'all? I think it just might suck. For real.

The book coming out? Well, it's based on my life. It spewed forth and it spewed forth quickly. It's about real people and real events and while, no I didn't remember word for word the conversations (it was ten years ago and I don't remember what I had for dinner last night much less what I did ten years ago) that I had with people, I remembered enough of the really bad/funny stuff to write it all down. The writing was easy. It took less than a month. I can actually look at this stuff now and laugh and not be afraid people will sue me and whatnot. And that's a good feeling.

I thought about my ex-husband and his potential reaction to the book (and, shockingly, he does actually read but I can't imagine he would voluntarily pick-up my book or any book of that type) and I even lamented to my sister about it and she said, "So what? It's not like anything you said wasn't true".

And she's right.
And that's sort of what's hard about it.

Because as time goes on it gets harder and harder to reveal your truth. I can tell you funny stories about shrieking at a lady at a pizza buffet or how much I love my dog and even sweet things about my husband and our marriage and all of that is true.

But the other stuff? It's hard. The whole who-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up thing is hard. The whole I-used-to-really-suck-at-life thing is even harder. Admitting my faults and my failings is really, really hard. Admitting I married someone who was a douchebag isn't fun. Admitting I had children just so someone would love me is even less fun. Admitting that it's really hard to tell people about my book because I just don't know if they will be supportive? Extremely un-fun.

But it's life. Or something like it.

So I work it out. I make phone calls and ask for things that I'm still not sure I have any business asking for. I introduce myself to people when I don't feel like talking. I ask friends and family, "Do you know anyone who can XYZ?" I open the circle a little wider everyday.

I'm letting people in.

And it's scary.



But it's life.