It's Only Real When You Hold It In Your Hands

To quote Charlera, 'Wow.' (If you don't know who Charlera is, read my book! You'll love her!) That's all I can really say. 'Wow.' It's far from perfect. It's only a self-published, semi-professionally printed hard copy with the font size in one chapter smaller than all the rest (Oops! Don't worry, I've since fixed that and as of a day or two from now, future copies should print with all of the text the same size...), but it's mine. This is a real life copy of a book that I wrote. A book that I spent ten months writing, three months editing, and two months formatting. A book that I passed on to friends and near-strangers with sweaty palms and knocking knees to ask for their feedback and criticism. A book that I've dreamed of holding for twelve years yet never quite believed I would.

It was worth it.

It was worth all the time (close to 2,000 hours), all the frustration (saying exactly what you want to say in the just-right way you want to say it is not as easy as you'd think), all the effort (up to twelve hours of writing some days, then going to bed and being unable to sleep because I can feel the next scene tingling on the tips of my fingers, nearly fully formed), and all the angst (pour your heart and soul into your writing, leave a breadcrumb trail of your inner-most self woven through your characters, then hand it to people who think they know you well and ask them to read it). There are hundreds of quotes from legendary authors on the painful and heartrending journey that is writing a book (see Hemingway quote below), and I feel blessed to be able to say that I have now had a taste of that. There were days that I had no desire to sit down and write, but I couldn't stop myself. If I tried to do anything else, the itch inside my brain grew stronger and stronger until I simply had to forego all else and write. But it was worth it. Because now I am holding a copy of the book that I wrote.

A year and a half ago I bought my first house and anyone who knows me well, knows that I wouldn't even consider a house that didn't have a room in it I could turn into a library (I'll post pictures and give a tour of my library in a future post sometime!). So I found that house, set up my library, and I put up two book stands in a prominent location. On one I proudly displayed the book my younger brother (Nicholas A. McComas) wrote and self-published and the other I left empty—awaiting the far-off barely-imagined arrival of a print copy of my own book. So for seventeen months, as I struggled with apathy and battled against my tendency to allow life to get in the way, this is what I looked at:

This was an everyday, heavy dose of guilt. It forced me to ask myself, "Have I been working toward this dream? Am I using my time productively?" Far too often I didn't like my answers. But it worked. My brother's book inspired me, the empty stand chided me, and between the two I accomplished what I set out to do. Now when I walk into my library this is what I see:

And as I said, it isn't perfect—it isn't fully professional, it wasn't published by Orbit or Tor—but it is mine. Now—deep breath—on to Volume II. Stay tuned!