I'm cringing as I write this. In the last few months, I've made the decision, the real decision, to attempt to publish the memoir that I spent six years writing. Until very recently, it was a floating idea in my daydreams. I daydream a lot and I cringe a lot.
The daydream took on a pretty regular reel: my book with a snazzy cover sits on a bookshelf at a quaint, tiny, bookshop (the kind with featured books hand-selected by the academic looking proprietor). I smile at the book and sigh with a nice content feeling. My book, called THE SHARK BRACELET, is the culmination of my efforts to tell the story of my brother and me. It gives credence to my time as a stay-at-home mom. See, while all of those other gals had perfectly mannered children and clean, organized homes, I actually wrote a whole book! And I think it's really good. So there.
This daydream was uncomplicated before I knew (and am still learning) the tremendous effort it takes to publish a book. It seems the easy part is writing it; the tough part involves securing a literary agent, who then has to secure a publisher, and many steps in-between.
One of those steps is writing a blog. Establishing an online presence. Ideally, I will amass a following of thousands who are so interested in my weekly cringes that they will stampede bookstores (quaint ones, huge mainstream ones, and online ones) to get their hands on my book.
Well, here I go. More about my book later.
Here's my weekly cringe: I rarely get dressed to drive my boys to school. It's early in the morning and it's been extremely cold in New Jersey this winter. I have this huge faux shearling coat that is about eight sizes too big for me. It hangs down to my ankles. Good coverage. I didn't realize that the center two buttons had popped off during this winter school-driving season. I notice this as I am standing in line for coffee. My coat is waved open, exposing my Lanz of Salzburg flannel nightgown with hearts and white doves on it. I know that I am the only woman under seventy-two who wears this night fashion, and definitely the only person in the world who wears it out in public. The guys behind the counter at Jersey Roasters are amused. The one who takes my order quickly scans my attire as I clutch my big, sloppy, coat closed. I know what he is thinking; he feels bad for my husband. I want to protest that he is wrong--a flannel nightgown is not necessarily an indicator of frigidity. But I just pay for my coffee and cringe as I walk to my salt-covered station wagon.