Well, hot damn! The book is out at last. And it feels…cool.

Sorry. That’s not—I’m not great at feelings. Let me try again.

It was a cold and blustery autumn day when my book took its first, intrepid steps into a harsh, unfeeling world, and I felt…pretty neat about it.

Oof. That’s somehow worse.

Okay. One more try.

After eight years of writing, editing, rewriting, re-editing, second-guessing, and panic-proofing, the silly little book I wrote is an actual thing. A material object you can use as a coaster or a shim to hold a tottery table steady. It’s out there. Exposed. For people to read. Strangers. And people I know. Which is obviously the scarier of the two.

I’m feeling…everything. All of the things. All at once. All the different voices in my head are piping up to give their varied opinions and it is getting a bit loud in here.

Thrilled! Sheephish! Terrified! Nauseous! They’re all over the place. One’s like, HOW PRESUMPTUOUS. NOBODY ASKED YOU TO WRITE A GROCERY LIST, MUCH LESS AN ENTIRE BOOK, and she has a posh British accent so you know she really means it.

This morning I went down to the river to sit on a large rock and try to sort things out. The water glittered at me in the sunlight and I felt a little wobbly as I reflected on all the people who’ve helped and supported me, everyone whose compassion or humor has inspired some part of the book even if they didn’t know it. It overwhelmed me, all the people with their good hearts.

But then sixteen-year-old Carrie appeared beside me.

“This rock is kinda small, huh?” she said, crouching on the edge of it.

“There’s another rock over there,” I said, pointing. “We don’t have to share this one.”

She spared it a perfunctory glance, then stared at me meaningfully until I shifted to the other rock. She settled herself down and asked what was up.

“Well…as it so happens, I have written a book. And it’s been published. This very day.”

“I know.” She pulled a baggie of dry cereal out of nowhere and offered me one.

“You do.”

“Yuh.”

“Oh.” I took a piece of cereal and crunched into it. “Well, what do you think about that?”

“Pretty cool.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is pretty cool.”

She stopped chomping and eyed me wryly. “You didn’t think you would actually do it, did you?”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I have done it.”

“That’s what I’m saying. That’s why it feels like a surprise. You didn’t think you’d ever actually do anything like this.”

“What, write a book?”

She considered her words carefully. “Act in such a way that you have an impact on the world, rather than allowing yourself to be acted upon.”

Frowning, I whispered, “You are so annoying.”

She was right, though. I’ve spent much of my life letting things happen to me rather than acting as a decisive force in my own life. For whatever reason, I have let countless opportunities in my life slide past me while I stood stock-still and made a big, ineffectual show of saying, “Oh, nooo!” as they drifted out of sight.

I could’ve done that with this book. It would have been easy. Seeing as I have so much practice. When it was rejected by literary agents, I could’ve decided to (and almost briefly did) fold myself up into a small origami box of despair. But for some unfathomable reason, I said “Screw it” and published it anyway. What sort of maniac does that? I’d been gatekept! Where was my pride? Who did I think I was?

Really, it’s all because of sixteen-year-old Carrie. The whippersnapper. This is a book I needed to read when I was her age: confused, socially maladroit, desperate for connection but utterly at a loss as to how to receive it. The book is for her, really. If anyone else happens to read it, and if they happen to enjoy it, then that’s just a bonus.

(No, not “just.” It’s a huge, massive, incomprehensibly enormous bonus. It’ll be the thrill of my lifetime if this book gives you even a bit of a giggle.)

Now. One of the voices in my head is a cranky old man who tells me this is nothin’ special. “Get back to work!” he barks. He sounds like my tenth-grade English teacher, actually. Equal parts grumpy and strangely encouraging. And you know what? He’s right. Time is a-wastin’.

So thank you, thank you, especially today, for reading.

Time for me to get back to work.