Once I stopped dancing around squealing and kissing the cover, I realized I had a job to do. I needed to sign my first copy.
This is for the blog contest we held in March where readers helped pick a title. My editor, Deb Werksman, selected blog reader Allie Sanders to receive a signed ARC of the book. Though we never actually specified who’d be doing the signing, I suspected it was me.
I sat down at my desk and stared at the book long and hard.
Once I finished giggling over “long and hard,” I went to my bookshelf and inspected the signed ones lurking there. I had no idea where I was supposed to sign my own book, but a quick survey of my collection suggested the title page was a good place to start.
A smart author would have taken a moment to practice what she wanted to write and assess the allotted space.
I spent ten minutes hunting for my penis pen.
Then I summoned one of my twenty-something male housemates.
“Can I get you to take a picture of something for me?” I asked.
He looked uncertain, but took the camera like a trooper. “What’s that on your pen?”
“Exactly what you think it is.” I held it up for him to inspect.
“Do all romance authors get those?”
“Yes. They hand them out in romance author school, along with our feather boas and slutty stilettos.”
We both looked down at my feet. I was wearing leopard-print Dansko clogs.
“The slutty stilettos are at the drycleaners,” I assured him.
I sat down at my desk and picked up the pen. “I just need a photo of me signing my first book. It seems like one of those milestone moments I should capture.”
“Do you want to move that big pile of papers or the dental floss or that silver thing that looks like you bought it at that special party you just hosted?”
“It’s a neck massager.”
So I moved the neck massager and the rest of the clutter and my housemate picked up the camera again.
I grabbed my pen and hesitated. “I’m not sure what to write.”
“Aren’t you a writer?”
“That’s pretty much how it works.”
In the end, I got the book signed and got a few pictures in the process. None of it is perfect. My writing is a little cramped and squiggly, and the photo makes me look inebriated.
But hey, it’s a starting point. There’s always room for improvement, which is pretty much like writing itself.