I received my first ‘author copies’ of my book on Saturday. It was a strange feeling. I felt as though I had been on a long journey, counting off the miles to the goalpost, and yet on reaching the final I felt reluctant to step over the finish line.

I placed the three boxes of books in my living room, telling myself I would open them later. My young nephew and niece were here for the day, so I didn’t want to open the boxes whilst I had company. I knew it would be a profound moment. A tearful moment. I’d thought about it, couldn’t wait to see my novel in print. I knew that when I saw my book, picked it up and held it for the first time, opened it up and saw my story there in print ... I knew I would burst into tears. Especially when I turned to the dedication page, simply ‘For my mum’. My mum died last New Year’s eve, but she had been poorly for a few months so she never really knew about the book. My mum has been my best friend and inspiration all through my life and I knew she would have been so proud. I and knew that when I opened to the dedication page it would be bittersweet. There would be more tears.

So I placed the boxes on the dining table to open later.

It wasn’t a great day, Saturday. My husband had a puncture on his bike and so my nephew, niece and I had to delay our McDonalds lunch to drive out to take him a spare inner tube. As we arrived back home and set out for McDonalds he rang again, he’d had another puncture. So it was McDonalds drive-through and try to eat burger and chips in the car whilst vainly telling the kids ‘not to drop crumbs’. It will take me weeks to get the burger-and-chips detritus out from between the seats and probably much longer to get rid of the smell.

So it was later that afternoon, after the kids had been collected and before my hubby had returned with his troublesome cycle, that I opened the boxes. I carefully ran a knife across the top, taking care not to damage the contents. I opened the flap and peered in. The top of the parcel was protected by bubble-wrap, I pushed it back and plunged my hand into the box, closed my fingers around one of my books. I pulled it out and looked at it, flicked through it, read the dedication page, and felt ... nothing!

Okay, if I am being absolutely honest with myself, if I felt anything at all it was disappointment. An anticlimax. I couldn’t understand it, I pulled out a couple more books and looked at them, but with the same result. Complete and utter indifference.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like the books. I did. Okay, I did think maybe the colours on the front cover were a little too pinky-orange. But I don’t think it was that. I popped the book back in the box and went into the kitchen to start the tea. My husband came home and I forgot to mention to him that my books were here.

Very strange, I know.

The following morning I was in the living room and I noticed the boxes of books. I’d forgotten about them, or maybe pushed them to the back of my mind. “Oh, my books came,” I told my husband, and I went over to a box and pulled one out. I walked across to him, and as I held my book out to him I was suddenly flooded with emotion and pride, I couldn’t speak. I stared at my book, turned to the dedication page, and burst into tears.