I returned home last week and discovered a couple of boxes sitting on the front steps. We hadn’t ordered anything recently, so unless the UPS guy was drunk again, I was pretty sure it could only be one thing, even though they showed up a week earlier than expected. My wife arrived at the same conclusion at the same instant, shrieked, and gave me a punch in the arm that would have made Mike Tyson circa 1988 proud.
I raced out of the car, ran up to the boxes, and nearly tripped over one. Which probably would have ruined the moment if I went flying into the door, twisted my ankle, and fell in the bushes. At least for me. The neighbors might have enjoyed that.
The boxes were as heavy as expected. My heart was hammering away in my chest like, well, a pulpy, muscular hammer. Which, let’s face it, is gross and not especially useful. But this was the moment I’d been waiting for my whole writing life. What else was my heart supposed to do?
My advance copies were in my hands. It was finally real. The proof was in front of me—I was a published author at last. Unless it was an elaborate hoax, in which case I would spend the rest of my days in prison for murdering the sick bastard prank-puller.
In my haste to rip the boxes open, I almost impaled the scissors in my leg. But somehow I managed to keep flesh (and more importantly, the books) intact.
I thought I’d share a few quick snaps from my craptacular dumb phone. It’s amazing it even has a camera, but it’s the best I could manage right then. . .