Late afternoon yesterday, I swapped out the static page I have on my blog from the book landing page to my regular About page. It was bittersweet.
From the beginning of the year, I counted down to my book release. I made plans and unmade them. The adrenalin rush between the release on Kindle and the paperback release was incredible. It was also not sustainable. I gave it my all. The reviews came trickling in. I let out the breath I did not know I was holding in.
As the months pass, I find myself looking at my book’s page on Amazon, Goodreads and elsewhere less and less. It has been a while since I kept track of the number of reviews and ratings. Like all else, this chapter in my life is in the past.
Occasionally I hear from someone about introducing the book as part of their school districts cultural equity curriculum. I am thrilled of course but not holding out hope. I notice a few libraries around me carry the book but not the one nearest to me. I will be talking about my book at my child’s elementary school next month.
The activity and buzz have died down. Life is back to the pre-book days. I tell myself I have to write to keep the juices flowing. Another story in my head is nascent, still evolving, bubbling, simmering and taking shape. I outlined a part of it a few days ago. Between work, kids’ school stuff, cooking, cleaning and just making it through each day’s news cycle, I am burnt out.
The prospect of getting through November to February is daunting. With each passing day, I hear about COVID casualties in my inner circle. Young children. Unborn babies. Pregnant women. I am weepy. I am enraged. I am scared.
I want all of this to end. I want to feel hope again. I want that adrenaline rush, that light happy, heady feeling again. Will the universe conspire? Will it deliver?
