I told myself this would be an anti-climax. How could it not be? Since I was a child, I’ve been anticipating the moment I would hold a copy of my own book in my hands.
Here, before my eyes, is the physical incarnation of lonely weekends, parties turned down, missed episodes of Homeland, key national events overlooked (I didn’t even catch the royal wedding on TV; I was too busy editing bloody Part 1). Alright, the book, lovely as it is, can’t give me back Kate Middleton in her glorious wedding dress. But at least it’s concrete proof that I was actually doing something useful during all that time alone in my room.
It hasn’t been an anti-climax, either. That’s partly because I’d managed to tone down my expectations. The arrival of the book in physical form feels pretty miraculous, but I now know it’s one of many great moments in the run up to publication rather than the only one. But still, it’s very exciting. I asked my boyfriend to take a picture of me holding the book (see below), and he had to take around 30 before he was satisfied he’d taken one in which I didn’t look ‘deranged’ (his unkind word, not mine).