Seeing my book for the first time
Today was surreal. I found myself in Waterstones looking for a book. Not mine…what I wanted was some comfort-reading to get me through the next few days so that I didn't have to think of mine for a while, — something like the one I've just finished, The Summer Book by Tove Jannson, something timeless and ageless, some other world I could just sink into for a while.
I always knew my own book was out tomorrow, but I somehow managed not to be thinking about that at all by lunchtime. It was hot and the high street was crowded and after I’d been to the supermarket I wandered in off the street without planning to, and almost without thinking. I browsed from table to table, picking up books randomly, turning them over, reading the publisher’s blurbs on the back, flicking through pages. Then as I passed the ‘new release’ hardbacks on the wall by the door I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye and stopped in my tracks. There staring back at me amongst all the others was a copy of my book.
It was the weirdest thing. I think my heart stopped at least two beats.
I’ve had a copy of that cover pinned to the noticeboard in my room for months now, and it's here on the blog as well (I also had my own author copies by then) so the image on the front of the book is very familiar to me by now. But in the shop today, seeing it there for the first time — and a day too soon! — for a moment I was completely disorientated and just stared up at it frowning, thinking 'what's that doing there?' I recognised it as my book, but, for a split second that’s all I did, just recognised it as mine — a possession, something belonging to me. It was almost as if I had left my own copy — which just happened to be in my bag at the time — there on the shelf by mistake. ‘How did that get there?’ my head was trying to say, as my hand almost got ready to grab it off the shelf and put it back into my bag. As soon as my head caught up and I realised why it was there I turned and left the shop without even taking it down to look at it. Very, very odd reaction.
But it's there - my life in a book on a bookshelf somewhere - and it's bizarre seeing it, but I was right: it doesn't belong to me anymore, it's somebody else's book now. My life is just a story now, out there with all the other stories. And hopefully now, at long, long last, I can finally be free of it and move on.