What is there really left to write at this point? After all the links on the book’s website, my own website, the book and my MySpace pages, the debut page here, and the interviews, what is there to say about debut day besides, Phew, I made it?
I’m writing from a beautiful, idyllic town in the mountains near Palm Springs called Idyllwild, where the most complicated thing you should have to do is learn how to spell the town name correctly (no simple task, as it turns out). I’m here with a friend to relax, to take walks and breathe clean air and, in short, not obsess over the fact that this book that I’ve done nothing but obsess over for the past 18 months (24, if you count writing time) is finally being released to the world.
Of course, the fact that I’m typing this, as opposed to walking through the glorious trails lined with pinecones, squirrels, a creek and rocks to get you across said creek, tells you a little something about how good I am at relaxing, taking walks, breathing clean air and not obsessing.
Yes, that was me in the gift shop that sells homemade candles that smell like chimney smoke (don’t knock it until you’ve smelled it, that one) screeching into my cell phone to my friend a request that she please try to get a copy of Newsday since they wrote something nice about the book and I clearly wouldn’t be able to find it in a town where the word “newspaper” only means The Town Crier (which, in case you’re interested, does cover the “San Jacinto and Santa Rosa Mountains from Twin Pines to Anza to Pinyon”).
So what can I share about having a book come out that the other Debs haven’t already? Probably nothing. But I will say this: While most women my age are more commonly birthing babies than books, I’m proud of what I’m delivering to the world today. It doesn’t matter if the people across the nation embrace my book or don’t, if it becomes known across the globe or not. It’s my baby and no one else’s.
And I didn’t have to gain any weight to have her.