Yeah, so I made the conscious decision to abandon the bah-g for awhile, but I thought I’d check in. Life is still scary, and all the reasons I decided to step back are still firmly in place. However, I do miss being that writer lady on occasion. Okay – more than occasionally. A lot. I want to get back into a book and dive in head first, but as my husband’s stem cell transplant is looming, I don’t dare. Happy Medium was killed by distractions and I don’t want that to happen again. Best to wait until I can concentrate again. Right? Yeah, I’m not fully buying it, either.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have the odd writer moment from time to time. There are two noteworthy occasions just recently: the arrival of my first print book, and the first time I saw it in a store.
The first was wrought with ceremony. I received the box in the mail, knew exactly what it was, and waited until the kids were settled and I was alone. It was a sacred moment. I sliced the tape, and prepared myself. “This will only happen once,” I said to myself, and opened the lid to find my beautiful books. And I felt… nothing. Don’t get me wrong, it was cool and I am sure not complaining, but I thought I’d get a charge from it. I should have gotten a charge from it. But even thinking it was kind of cool to see my book in my hands, I was a little numb.
Hmmm… could be because six months ago I told my doctor I wanted to be drugged like a ’60s housewife. You know, the ones who could get run over by a truck and not care? Yeah. That would work for me. So it stole my big book moment. I guess I’m good with that. Kinda.
The second was seeing my book on the shelf at my local bookstore. I was there for a completely different reason, and turned around to see one whole copy of Let’s Dish turned out and staring at me from the bottom shelf. This time I had a reaction.
“You have it!” I said. Squawked, actually. My mouth was working pretty much independently.
“We have what?” the lady behind the counter asked, looking semi-helpful, semi-confused, and very, very scared.
“My book!” I shoved my hand into hers, totally on autopilot, and shook it hard. “I’m Catherine Wade.” I don’t think I made much of an impression on her – well, not a positive one – but was impressed with myself how my pseudonym rolled off my tongue and I didn’t trip over it. I still struggle when I sign a book not to sign my legal name, and feel like a fraud when I introduce myself as what my friends call Writer Cate. She feels like a twin I have no real right to, but she was in full presence when I saw my book for sale in our little one-horse town. So maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Then again, maybe I’ve got issues that those ’60s drugs can’t even hope to touch.