Nerves

There is a time in almost every writer's life when the nerves begin to take over the life. When a normally calm human being turns in a withering obsessive-compulsive. This time is called The Book Is On The Shelves. When you enter a bookstore, you assume the guise of a stalker. You hang out in the requisite section, usually with a decoy book in your hand, pretending to read, all the while watching the customers as they browse through the shelves. Your breath comes faster when they approach your letter of the alphabet.

Will they? Will they? Will they?
And No.

Some authors who are good with promotion (unlike moi) will take this opportunity to introduce themselves and say, "Oh, are you looking for something to read?" And then casually work into the conversation that they are a published author and 'oh, isn't this cool? My book is here'. Sadly, that is not me. And then there is the coded conversation with the store clerk.

Me: "I'm looking for a book by Kathleen O'Reilly."
Clerk: "I don't know."
Me: "Can you look it up?"
Clerk (with nasty 'don't bother me, kid' glance): "Sure."
Clerk: "Here it is. No, we don't have it in. Can I order it for you?"
Me (with heart in shoes, and too embarrassed to actually confess who I am): "No."

Other nerve-wracking moments -- the Review is in.
Now, authors and reviewers are like oil and water. You need both of them for a decent salad dressing, but they aren't designed to coexist without shaking things up. To be completely honest, reviews don't bother me too much. But there is always the renegade REVIEWER WHO DOESN'T GET IT.

You read the review and say, "Uh, excuse me? I don't think you read the entire book. THERE, on page 27! See that fourth sentence! It clearly illustrates the heroine longing desire for silk gloves."
Disclaimer: This is a fictional example designed to protect innocent reviewers and authors everywhere.

The cardinal rule for authors is to never answer a review, which would only dig your grave even deeper than it already is. However, this is like telling my nine-year-old daughter not to whine. It is not natural. So, I scream at my computer screen, write emails that will never see the light of day, and in general curse the very people who are kind enough to actually take the time and read it.

Lastly, we have the conversation with family members and friends, not trying to be too obnoxious, but wanting to let them know, that yes, the book is out, and now is the time to buy it:

Me: "How's it going?"
Mom: "Good, and you?"
Me: "Busy, busy, busy. Got a booksigning next week."
Mom: "Oh, do you have a book out now?"
Me (YAY, she picked up on the hint, but I keep my voice blasé): "Yeah, you can find it at Target and stuff, but you know those Harlequin's, they'll disappear faster than Janet Jackson's, uh, never mind, Mom."
Mom: "So tell me where I can find it. I just keep forgetting that."
Me: "Do you want copies? I mean, I can send copies. You don't have to actually buy it." which translates to, "I'm only your daughter, but don't let that mean anything here."
Mom: "No, no, I want to. Of course, that means I have to get out to the store. Which store carries it?"
Me: "Go to Waldenbooks. Barnes and Noble is iffy with the Harlequins. Although they're getting better."
Mom: "I'll look. So what else is going on?"
Translation: "Can we talk about something else now?"

People say authors are neurotic and eccentric, but this would not be a problem if the book never hit the shelves. If my books never hit the shelves, I would be calm, centered, and have no bitchy moments... Of course, that would mean my books are not good enough to be published. That my writing is not as good as Joan "Who the Hell published her?" Smith. That I cannot construct a simple sentence without making an editor hurl. That my life is over because I am a failure.

But other than that, I'd be OK. Really.