In exactly 8 hours, 21 minutes and 32 seconds, it will be February 1st. Which means that once it’s February 1st, there’s only THREE MONTHS before my book comes out.
27 seconds . . .
15 . . .
I know this because I’m now obsessed with my Blingybob day counter-downer (no clue if that’s what you call it – just go with it,) on my MySpace page. Really, I need to get rid of the thing because it’s doing nothing but making me worry.
8 hours, 17 minutes and 20 seconds . . .
13 seconds . . .
And today, when I made my daily run for a fountain soda and Peppermint Patty at a locally owned convenience store, I decided to take in a galley to show the owners. The one woman was SO excited for me, and couldn’t wait to read it, so I loaned her a galley. But on the drive home, I began to feel that familiar pull at my stomach, the same feeling I get whenever I think of my book–my baby–being out there.
It’s funny. I remember having a conversation a year ago with Lara Zeises. She listened as I talked about how I dreaded the thought of letting my book go, and how anxious I was at the thought of never being able to edit it anymore . . . and at the thought of it being subject to other people’s judgment.
Lara calmly looked at me and said, “Laura, sometimes you just have to jump.”
Jump? Jump?
But I’m not a jumper. I don’t jump–I plan. I analyze. I make lists. I make lists about making lists. But jump? No. Not me. I’m not a jumper.
But then again . . . if you want to get literal about it and throw a swimming pool into the analogy . . . then, yeah, okay, I do jump. I’m not like those women who hesitate at the pool steps, and ask their children five times if the water is cold. (Why? They’ll only lie.) Then she’ll dip a pinky toe in. Quickly pull it out, shiver, and ask again, is the water cold? No, Mom, it feels good after a while. So she’ll put one foot in . . . then slowly the second. The water is to her calves now . . . the hips, and then she shrieks when a child splashes water dangerously close to her twisted and clipped hair. Then the water is at her stomach . . . higher, higher . . . then OOOO! The breasts (which is always the worse part.) Finally, she’s in. But not all the way, of course. It would mess up her hair and makeup.
Sorry, but that’s not me.
I kick off my flip-flops. Wave to the kids. Hold my nose and CANNONBALL as close to them as possible without doing any bodily damage.
That’s the way to get in the water, my friends. And yeah, yeah, I know. I still have to hold my nose.
So why can’t I adapt this jumping attitude with my book? Maybe it’s because of all the many steps I take BEFORE jumping into the pool. I have to shower, and shave, for obvious reasons. And wash/condition my hair even though I’m only going to get it wet again. (At least I don’t blow-dry it.) I layer on my 45 SPF sunblock. Check my reflection. Wonder if I should wear a different suit. Change my suit, check reflection. Change suit again. Then it’s off to pack my bag: tissues, change, more sunblock, lip gloss, book, brush, hair gel, etc., etc., it’s all in there. Finally, we’re ready to go. And my boys are about to explode.
BUT, once I’m at the pool, I’m all about jumping in.
So I guess with almost three months to go . . . it’s almost time to jump. There’s to be no more editing, no more checking my reflection in the mirror, and no more chances to check the water’s temperature.
I just hope and pray that in 3 months, 8 hours, 3 minutes and 7 seconds . . . the water isn’t cold!
