The Me, Me, Me Stage: Part Seven of Publishing an Essay Collection

My Withered Legs and Other Essays is released in a month. Just so you know, my feeds will now fill with Me! Me! Me! posts. Sorry. But not sorry. I do believe in the at least eighty percent not about yourself approach to social media, but for right now I'll be tooting my own horn. To you it might seem as if I'm the neighbor's kid doing off-key scales over and over on their rented trombone next to an open window, but this book is the culmination of years of work. I get to go on and on and on. There will be none of this "humble bragging" nonsense. So either tell me how excited you are and how great the book is or just scroll by.

The University of Georgia Press says the books are at shipping which means people and stores with pre-orders (The Lynx, Charis Books, UGA Press, Kindle) should be getting their copies soon. As should I. (Yes, the traditional un-boxing photo will be splashed over the internet.) There has been a snafu. The press didn't come through with any advanced readers copies. This is disappointing for sure and a blow to any possibility of early reviews, but Jeremy (the outside publicist I hired) is working to place essays in journals and such. And UGA press is helping with book event pitches and social media campaigns.

And here's a confession. I've been making a big deal about becoming seventy-one and not striving in my writing career these days and how I don't care as much about lists and awards and the next contract and just want to write what I want to write and implying I now have some sort of old lady wisdom. But it seems, with a book coming out, the striver in me has risen. Not much, but it's there. It makes me willing, once again, to endure all the possible ghostings and rejections that mean I'm not a known-enough writer or the book isn't from a major press or my book's subject matter isn't important or relevant to whatever journals, online newsmagazines, awards, lists of 2024 nonfiction books, review sites, or podcasts we contact.

The popular wisdom (an oxymoron, perhaps?) says publication is a time of grand excitement and feelings of accomplishment in an author's life. In this moment that's a lie, at least for me. I'm stressed and have become a catastrophizer (or awfulizer as a friend calls it) which is not my usual, perhaps overly Pollyanna take on things. But what helps are old friends, writer friends, new friends, FB friends, Substack subscribers, reader friends, all the types of friends. People who say how thrilled they are. Who insist my work is relevant and important in the world. How they’ve already registered for the Gainesville launch party or the virtual event at Charis Books where I’ve given Sarah Einstein permission to ask me questions. (Yikes.) Who say they can't wait until their copy arrives. Who say how my eyes have that lovely green tint in them this morning and to come here and give me a kiss. (That last was my wife.)

The box of books might be here this week. It'll be a relief to hold one in my hand, open it, and find that inevitable typo. Here's an important tip: Once a book is published only the author can point out a typo. Either they find it themselves or it doesn't exist. Really. Say nothing.

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