The book was published a month ago. For the first ten days, I kept looking at it and touching it. I couldn't believe it was real. It was like seeing my baby. This robust little miracle came out of me? It was like seeing my ankles after childbirth. There they were! They also seemed magical after not having seen them for six months.
The book is also magical. This came out of me? What does it mean? Does it mean I am a legitimate writer now? Do we need someone's stamp of approval to make us real? Or is that just me?
My ankles recovered from childbirth. The rest of my body never did. I kept explaining to salesladies in clothing departments that I was still carrying "a little baby fat".
"How old is your baby?" one salesclerk asked with kind innocence, as she attempted to cinch a silk obi belt around my sumo wrestler waist.
"He turned five last month," I replied.
The horrified look in her eyes told me all I needed to know. Baby fat is to be all gone within a few months post-partem. That's what post-partem depression is all about, by the way. I was encased in a large, beige jello mold shaped like a wading pool where there had once been muscle tone and sinew. Bring on the milkshakes and cheese whiz. I'm sure they'll make everything better.
Today, it's post the L.A. book launch invitations, invite and secure guest readers, select a menu, post new blogs, go, go, go and I feel paralyzed, paralyzed, paralyzed. WTF?
