I was going to title this post, “Today I’m Finally an Author.” But when I posted that thought on my Facebook page, my critique partner shook a virtual finger at me and scolded, “First — you’ve ALWAYS been an author. Now, you’re just a published author.” Then I remembered a StoryWonk post from last week, when Lani and Alastair said words to the effect that if you complete a novel, even if only one other person reads it, you are a novelist.
I am a novelist. I sent my novel, Rule Number One, to Bookstrand Publishing and they offered to publish it. I’m accepting their offer. So now, I’m going to be a published novelist, something I’ve dreamed of since I was ten years old and began writing stories that I couldn’t keep confined to my imagination. I still can’t quiet the people in my mind, characters banging around in my head, anxious for their stories to be told.
My mother always believed in me as a writer–when I was in my early twenties, she gave me a journal for my birthday. She inscribed the first page like this:
To My Nan, because when you’re a famous author, someone will need to put together your memoirs and this will help. Love, Mom
I got that journal out tonight after I received the offer from Bookstrand. It’s full of my very young thoughts and dreams and experiences, some bad poetry, and dozens of ideas for stories. I don’t know that I’ll ever be a famous author or that anyone will want to put together my memoirs, such as they are, but wow. Maybe this is just a tiny step toward Mom’s wish for me.