I Stand on The Titles That Came Before Me

Yesterday I was featured in the local newspaper's weekend art's section with a head-to-toe photograph and a Q&A interview by way of a little early book promotion. It was my idea to stand on the pile of books, which I thought would be interesting. In the photo, I am also holding the advanced reading copy of my novel. Of course. The whole thing was kind of fun. But here's the thing: we are ill-equipped in so many ways, we writers. I mean, they keep you alone in a dark room with the dim glow of the computer screen for, say, 15 years,* where you become isolated, surly, and happy being alone. Then for a few minutes they throw you into the glaring light to sing and dance, and seem like the interesting person whose book everyone will want to read, and it's weird. I feel vaguely unpresentable, like I need a shave (back and legs, of course). Also, I feel apologetic about it, like: "Look what I'll do to sell my book....that's right, anything!" And yet they tell you this is what you must do: tweet, pose, post, stump, read, smile, sound interesting, balance on one foot, stand on your head. Don't get me wrong: I am not complaining. I am perfectly, happily happy about the entire situation. I'm just....I don't know...a little uncomfy, I guess. It's like my friends 7-year-old kid who always says: "Look at me! Look at me! Don't look at me!" Right?? I keep looking at my watch, thinking, "Okay, so when do I get to go back to my dungeon office? I have another book I could be writing." And I'm also thinking at the exact same time, "Oh, no. This will be over in the blink of an eye, and then I will have to go back to that office dungeon! I have that other book to write." It's very confusing, is what I'm trying to say. Today, after the article ran, I got a text from someone who is sort of stalking/flirting/playing me, but it might also have been completely innocent in that "guess-who-I-am-I-met-you-once-at-a-party-and-I-want-to-read-everything-you've-ever-written-but-am-not-going-to-tell-you-who-I-am-cause-it's-more-fun-for-me-to-have-you-keep-guessing" way. And, um, the whole thing is super weird.

*My writer friend, Sal, says that I have to stop harping on the length of time that it took to write this beyotch of a novel. She says no one cares, and so I'd better start shutting up about it. I believe she is probably right.