My first official book signing party

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Every author dreams of sitting at a table and signing copies of the books they have painstakingly brought forth from the depths of their imagination. It is a rite of passage that has always intrigued me and has lingered in the back of my mind since I self-published my first book in January of 2021. Putting out that first book in the midst of a global pandemic was not ideal, so the opportunity to organize a book signing was an unattainable dream that was soon buried under the pile of words swirling around in my brain.

Yesterday, a small group of women I refer to as “The Fab Five” joined me in a small room, and they allowed me to sign their copies of my books and talk about my writing process as well as the difficulties self-published authors face as they attempt to fight their way into the mainstream of the literary world. It is an uphill battle, but one I will continue to walk barefoot in the snow both ways. (I’m showing my age with that reference)

The hour we spent together was nothing short of magical. I allowed myself to feel like an author, and not just a person who wrote a story or two. The more I talked about my journey as a writer, the more I connected to the part of myself that feels like the true essence of my being. I love to write, and I love that the stories I have created have entertained people enough to have them ask to have their books signed by me, and to spark a discussion about the books I will be writing in the future.

When I sent my first book baby into the world, I felt like a writer. But after sitting in that small room with The Fab Five, women who have read and enjoyed my stories, I truly felt like an author. I am compelled to give my eternal gratitude to Nancy, Nora, Evelyn, Sharon, and Jayne. The time you gave to me yesterday inspired me to keep going, and to never lose sight of my dream.

Like sands through the hourglass – these are the thoughts in my head

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At the risk of seeming overly loquacious, I have challenged myself to post every day for the month of November.  What began as a drip of creativity has turned into a steady stream and threatens to flood my thoughts, and my keyboard.  The words that I envisioned having to struggle to find are lending themselves with no contest and ideas present themselves in unending fashion.  The sands in the hourglass that represent my ideas seem to refill themselves as quickly as they dissipate through the pinhole in that blown glass.

No longer is my imagination confined in such a small space.  No longer are my thoughts trapped in a glass bulb, buried in a myriad of cognitive ideas.  With one gentle turn, the essence of my words now flows as freely as those infinitesimal grains.  Ideas churn in the vortex of sand as they fight to free themselves from the bottleneck and into their new-found freedom.

Those thoughts, each small granule of sand that escapes into the path of indulgence,  remind me why I began this journey.  I am compelled to follow this yearning to put letters and words on a page.  I find myself creating characters and dialogue while I shop for groceries.  I compose outlines while driving home from work and I dream in paragraphs.

I write because I am inspired to write.   I write to indulge the little voices in my head that lead me into creativity, and I write because, through my writing, I have finally discovered who I was meant to be.