So, the collection is done… sort of. A proof copy arrives on Tuesday. I’m nervous, I’ll admit. I keep imagining that I’ll sell 4 copies and feel like an asshole; simultaneously I feel like it’ll catch on and sell a bunch of copies. I don’t know which one I’m more afraid of.
There’s this girl who I know will think a poem is about her, and I’m not sure if I can tell her the truth. I’m not sure if I know the truth.
The weird thing with writing, I’ve found, is that its meaning is so often changed and decided after the writing is finished. I write things with a light touch which have cause heavy emotion in my readers. I’ve written heavy pieces torn in full from my still open wounds, and garnered a smile. I should be happy, I think, that a book will be published bearing my name, and words I’ve written. I should be happy just to have that proof copy arrive, knowing I did it mostly on my own. But, I’m nervous, I’ll admit it.
I’m nervous because a girl will think a piece of writing is about her, and another will think it her. I’m nervous because old friends will read it and gain some insight into the depths previously kept hidden under bad jokes and mixed drinks.
I keep thinking that when it’s available something will be changed… and I know that’s not true. I’ll just be lighter of words for a moment, left with only a novel to slave over, which will never be finished it seems. Or, maybe it will change things, I hold that thought simultaneously with the other.
Or, maybe, I’ll sell 4 copies and feel like shit, give up on writing for a few weeks, then go back to the novel… that seems likely. Anyway, I finished the collection; the proof is in the mail; and I’m very nervous about the fact.