So, I kinda spent October on the emotional roller-coaster known as “becoming a published author. ” Almost every event built toward hitting that magic release button. And then, when the moment came, it involved a bottle of fizzy grape juice, a gorgeous bouquet of flowers, and a lot of happy-dancing around the kitchen.

Immediately afterward I ran the full gamut of emotions. Sort of an “I rock!” and “I need to write more. . . now.” to “What if the next book doesn’t come out for a long time?” and then “What if I’m no good and nobody reads it and even if they do they don’t like it?” And then we threw in some “What am I even doing with my life?” for good measure. Fortunately the ripples have now subsided. At least the big ones have. Now I wait more or less rationally for reviews to start showing up, and try to control the strong urge to spend every waking moment writing like mad. 

I did manage to get an author account on GoodReads, which was exciting. (Expect for when an old non-fiction book I helped write appeared in my list. Whoopsies. Is there no way to keep those sorts of projects separate from my fictional works?)

I had grand plans to do NaNoWriMo this year, but the butter kind of got all over the spinach, and it’s not going to happen. I’ve got too much on my mind and too many other things to focus on. But I do plan to finish getting Sea of Purple Ink polished up and then send it off for technical edits. And I’ve been working away on Blood of a Jinn, and the second Surfaeillance story. Man, it feels like I only just finished dealing with cover art for A Twist of Fae, and now I have to do it all over again for Sea of Purple Ink. Is there no mercy?

Don’t worry, though. Publishing a story was a rather pleasant sensation, and I fully plan to do it again, soon, and as often as possible.

Just for fun, here’s a poem I wrote about the many ideas that crowd a writer’s mind.

The Line Begins Over There

There is never enough time to
write all the stories that rumble,
steam, and puff through the corners
of my imagination.
Some must wait, ticket in hand, huddled
in the bookshop of the train station until
the conductor calls their name.

Some wait so long they become a
contradiction in terms. A book
that is unwritten, but a story nonetheless.

There’s the exotic one in its cobalt
binding, with threads of red and gold,
leaning up against a high corner shelf
in a final effort to see what time the
station clock gives.

There, too, sits the slender calfskin romance,
its bookmark neatly spread across
a travel guide marked “The Author’s Mind in a Weekend.”
A bold statement, if I’ve ever read one.

And one fat little beauty the color
of frosted bark, with a stack of loose sheafs
beside it, and, I do believe, a wrinkled
map of lands where no train runs.

The rest are heaped together in a corner
beside the timetable, dusty and comfortable,
drowsy in the creative afternoon glow.
They are content enough to wait
until a breeze purrs through their gentle pages
and carries a word or two of remembrance
to my waiting and eager ear.

Then the locomotive will grind to a stop,
the foot-blackened stairs will clatter down
to the station floor, and one story, with
a trembling ticket tucked between its pages,
will step aboard the train.