Well, it’s happened. I’ve written a novel, and today it officially went on sale. I am now a published author.
Like all first-time authors, I am completely self-assured of my imminent success. Fame and fortune lurk excruciatingly nearby, waiting with baited breath to tackle me to the ground and rob me of my obscurity. Oh, the brutality! It remains to be seen whether this initial waylaying — which may interrupt my writing this piece, I apologize if that’s the case — will leave me with leather patches sewn onto my elbows, or if I’ll have to manage that with my tailor.
Note to self: I’ll need a tailor. Rich and famous first-time authors have tailors on speed dial, I’m sure of it.
Further note to self: I’ll need speed dial.
How rich must one become before one qualifies for eccentricity? I’ve just checked my bank balance, and both of the dollars I found there lead me to believe that if I stopped showering and started wearing giant sunglasses indoors now, I’d be perceived no higher than an interesting homeless person. Or the wrong kind of hipster. I think they take away your book fame if you try eccentricity too early.
Still waiting. I’ve decided to hold off on calling in to my day job and using all of the swear words I know to quit as emphatically as possible. For the time being, that is. At least until the obscene wealth and notoriety kick in. Please, no one lavish me with praise for my wisdom and cunning. Save it for the fame, and lavish me with praise for that.
I’m not sure what might be holding things up, perhaps fame and fortune had more assaults scheduled for today than I’d anticipated. I should have phoned ahead, I’m really not patient enough to wait like this. I don’t know the number off the top of my head, though. Hey! Another use for speed dial!