All week I’ve been feeling a little throw uppy. People are reading my work. They are interacting with part of my soul. It’s like having your child up on stage and you’re hoping and hoping they don’t mess up. My adrenaline is pumping and I just can’t settle down. I’m forgetting things and acting slightly cray-cray!
And I’m not sure why. The feedback has been great. The book has been spotted in the carpool line, soccer practice and at a doctor’s office. But people keeping telling me they feel like I’m the main character. Well, I’m not Heather. There are some very obvious differences and then there are some striking similarities. Heather would have highlighted her own hair and exploded the bottle of hair color all over her bathroom like I did this weekend. I would trip on a run with a bag of dog crap in my hand just like Heather did. But, Heather’s every mom I know. Her friends and enemies are a compilation of those I know, what I hear and what I observe. And then it’s all exaggerated to make it more exciting. That’s what fiction is. An author writes what they know. Boy oh boy, do I wish I knew Adam Levine like Heather knows Peter. Sorry, Justin!
Yesterday, I was on the exercise bike reading O magazine and I read a quote that spoke to me and finally settled my stomach.
“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly.”Theodore Roosevelt
I dared greatly. Thank you for embracing me. Thank you for holding me up. I can’t wait to do it again.