Two days before the release of my debut novel, What Binds Us, this waiting is what I imagine being pregnant is like: for thirty-eight weeks you carry this child and for those thirty-eight weeks everything is possible; he could be president, he could be beautiful. And then he’s born and what he is is real, flesh, yours.

Waiting, I find myself trapped by two fears—equally paralyzing—what if the book sucks? what if no one reads it? What if it doesn’t suck and I never write again? I went to bed.

I awoke at 4 a.m. because the words were coming, would not stop coming, were shouting to be heard, written down, not forgotten, wouldn’t in fact stop until pen hit paper. (These are the words that came—part of my next book, I think.)

Then it struck me: I got the words. I am a writer. Nothing more, nothing less am I. I got the words. Will continue to write them down.

After, when that rush of words, released in the writing down, quieted, I began to write this blog entry, to admit this writer’s fears.

Sunday at midnight, I bought the book on Amazon. At 1:30 a.m. I held my Kindle in my hand and did what I suppose every mother does—counted the toes, the fingers, the ears, the eyes, in this case I read the words, studied the commas (when you write really long sentences, commas are important). Again, I guessed what I felt was a feeling like that of a new mother: despite the preparations, despite what you know to be true, he doesn’t seem quite real, this child. Not yet. Not until you can hear his sound in the world will he seem real.

And then you hear his sound in the world and you don’t care if he’s president, if he’s beautiful because he is, above all, yours.
What Binds Us