So, it’s 2:12 a.m. as I start this post, and I’m absolutely exhausted.
I had a brutal deadline tonight and probably wrote roughly 4,000 words for my newspaper — more than normal — and, of course, worked about 15 hours at my regular job today — not more than normal — but I still couldn’t wait when I got home at roughly 12:30 to work on getting my book up on Amazon.
And it took me a while, but it’s up there. “Under review,” they say.
And I feel weird. Nervous. Elated. And kind of victorious. It’s been a bit more than 21 years since I fancied myself a writer, and first dreamed of publishing a novel. And yeah, there’s been a shit ton of obstacles in the way, and yeah, it’s just on Amazon, as some of you are whispering and sneering out there in the back of the crowd. But where’s your book? What the hell have you done with your life other than mock and tear down others who have tried.
So, yeah, it’s just on Amazon. And yeah, I’ll probably just sell about a dozen copies — and that’s if my Mom buys six or seven of them as gifts — but it’s published. It’s out there in the world. It’s available to more than, what, 500 or 600 million people?
It could make it big. Probably won’t, but could. And you know I’m going to market this thing to no end.
Anyway, let me have my bliss. Let me enjoy this finish line. It’s taken a long time, and you couldn’t possibly understand why I feel this way, and you probably don’t even think it’s a big deal, but I’m still sitting here pretty pumped up. Because in roughly 12 hours — according to Amazon’s estimated review time — I’m going to be a published author.
It’s too bad I don’t drink. I feel like celebrating.