There’s much I can say about the book publishing process, which added grey hairs to my head and wrinkles around my weary eyes.
But I forgot most of it the day I ripped open this package to reveal the first ever print copy of Carry Me Home.
Fast-tracked via Amazon, it arrived one sunny November morning, like any other delivery which barrels into the driveway on the back of some regular looking truck.
Only, this truck had been listened for all morning.
I’d pottered around the front garden, half interested in the new summer roses, but really, head tilted to every noise and rumble from the other side of the hedge.
The cardboard packaging fell apart easy enough under the pull of my knife, and there it was. Velvety cover, cream pages, everything I’d imagined for years. Beside the lemon bowl on my kitchen bench.
In. My. House.
A proof copy for me to examine from every angle, before I pressed the publish for all the world to read button.
But first, I had to hold it. And smell it. And rub the soft cover against my cheek. And when my breathing allowed… hold the book at arm’s length to make sure it was real. And squeal a little.
Giddy, giddy gooseflesh, all my prayers had been answered…and my book had come home.