I’m giving birth tomorrow (sort of)

Coming soon BM

I remember exactly how I felt waiting to go into theatre for my c-section… the birth of my first child. I was naturally terrified and utterly mad with nerves; in a few moments doctors would be slicing me open, while I was wide awake, and then yanking a crying, kicking, small human out of my uterus!

I was nervous that I might feel it. I was nervous to become a mother. I was nervous for the painful recovery. I was nervous for certain body parts, I had been warned that my stomach muscles and bladder would never be the same again. I was nervous for my husband, who with minutes to spare, was having “HIS LAST” cigarette outside. (I promise, it’s the last one.) 

I was also scared that our son would take one look at us and curse the fact that we were his parents, and I was also worried what I was going to feel. Would I love him instantly? Would  I want to smother him with a pillow because he didn’t stop crying and I had postpartum depression? Would this be the best moment of my life, as everyone tells you it is?

I had worked so hard to get to this point, the extra 20 kg’s of fat cells and stretch marks clinging to me were testament to this. I had suffered back pain, extreme rib ache (no one told me that my ribs might feel like they were snapping) I hadn’t seen my feet, let alone my vagina in months and I was burping like a sailor. Yes, I had toiled hard to get to this point of finally bringing baby Jack, into the world.

But amidst all this fear and uncertainty, there was one thing I was sure of; no one would be telling me what an ugly baby I had just given birth too. People just don’t do that, even if your newborn does resemble a Garbage Pail Kid. No one would look at him and scrunch up their faces and say, “I don’t know, I just don’t like it” OR “I could only look at him for a few moments, and then I had to stop, I really wasn’t enjoying it.”

But that’s what is going to happen tomorrow when I “give birth” again.. to my book-baby. Because let’s face it, writing a book is much, much more than just putting words onto paper. It’s month and months of toiling, probably some extra kg’s too, it’s your heart, your soul, you blood, sweat, tears and all your precious time.

Writing your book and then waiting for it to be published, is like being pregnant. The joy you go through when you sign the book deal, to the discomfort, to the highs and lows, the exhaustion of sleepless nights and those unbearable last few months as your publishing date creeps closer and closer.

But unlike the birth of my son, this birth becomes public domain. It becomes something that people can criticize. They can tell you they don’t like it, they can give you one star and write scathing reviews about it. Sometimes they do it with tact, but other times they are ruthless, callous and even cruel.

Sure, not everyone will like your book. I certainly don’t expect some serious, scarf- wearing, literary aficionado that only reads the Pulitzer Prize winners to tell me that my little “chickLit” book is the best thing he’s ever read. But it is still difficult to accept.

It’s hard because you know how much work went into it. It’s hard because in many ways the book is a part of you. It’s a little piece of yourself that you are sending out into the world – and now anyone can say anything they want about it.

But just like birth, you put on your big girl panties (or in that case those huge, horrible, mesh things) and suck it up. Because once a baby is in there, it has to come out. There is no way of negotiating your way around that unfortunate biological fact. Just like your book coming out. Once your publisher has it, once the cover has been designed, book printed, eBook formatted, advances paid… it is inevitable.

I’m proud of what is coming out tomorrow. I could not have put more work, dedication and love into it if I tried. To me, it’s my perfect book-baby and no one can take that away- not even a mean reviewer. And just like giving birth, had Jack come out with one finger and seven legs, I would probably still think he was perfect and love him unconditionally.

So bring it on…

And here it is. ‘Burning Moon’, my book baby that has been a year and a half in the making (book pregnancy can be substantially longer that normal pregnancy)

Burning Moon- born 2 August 2016. Happy Birthday for tomorrow.

 

BM for Cover reveal wtpa

LINKS TO BUY 
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2ackjJB
B&N: http://bit.ly/2afn76g
iBooks: http://apple.co/2axKNoy
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2aaymKQ
Google Play: http://bit.ly/2awu8SD

 

 

 

 

 

Someone pass that woman a razor!

deadline razor

The 15th of March might have been an ordinary day for you. So ordinary in fact that you might not even have noticed the little sucker pass on by.

But I noticed it.  Oh yes, I did.

I noticed it because it was the day my 3rd book was due to my publisher. Perhaps some backstory is needed here; Grand Central Publishing bought 3 of my books recently. Two of which they have read, one they have not. And the 15th March was when I had to hand in this book. And because they had not read it, and they loved the other two, the pressure was on. And I did not handle the pressure in a very ladylike manner, at all. 

In fact, the pressure reduced me to something vaguely resembling a Neanderthal. The first thing to slip was my attire. In my single-minded, obsessive pursuit of this deadline I began forgetting to get dressed in the morning. I rolled out of bed in my pajama’s, rolled out the house, across my little lawn and into my office- still in my pajama’s.

The next thing to disappear was my hair brush. Soon I began walking around looking like Cyndi Lauper’s long -lost love child that had been raised by apes in the Amazon  since being dropped off there in the mid-eighties to avoid scandal. My hair got so big that  it began attracting small items; my glasses, pens and pencils and finally small woodland creatures that decided to use it as a nest.

Screen Shot 2016-04-15 at 9.50.17 AM

And then, as the sleepless, stressful, cuticle-biting, chocolate-binging-eating, energy-drink-consuming days passed, I began to forget to shave. All desire to remove unwanted hair had left me. I had almost forgotten that such hair-removal devices even existed. First, my legs started sprouting hairs and then my armpits exploded forth with an abundant hairy bounty! But the worst part… was that I hadn’t even noticed it!

That’s how little attention I was paying to anything outside of my book (my husband- bless his soul- had probably pretended not to notice). I only became aware of my own hairiness when standing in the checkout queue at my local grocery store. I’d raised my arm to scratch my head (it was probably the small rodents causing it to itch) when I saw a man look at me in horror (more so than usual).

You see, the man had just come face-to-face with my unshaveness. He probably thought I was one of those bra-burning, freegan-feminists that’s into free-bleeding and shooting men in the balls. I vowed right there and then that when I got home I would shave immediately…

Only I didn’t. I forgot again, because whilst driving home I solved a plot issue  and rolled right back into my office and carried on typing in all my glorious hairy-ness!

p.s- I have since shaved. Although I am currently relapsing, as I chase a 1 May deadline.