When I decided to pursue my dream and write a book, it seemed to be the perfect job for me. I get to stay home and work in my pajamas if I want. I get to work with my cousin. I was on my own schedule: no boss, no deadlines, no stress. How lucky am I? I think of myself as a bit of a recluse, so it all worked perfectly for me. Now, reality was setting in.
My husband was leaving for work and I wanted to give a copy to his coworker, who was gracious enough to read our manuscript several years ago. I read you should sign books with an extra fine tip Sharpie and in a color other than black. Apparently, there are rules for signing books. I had a blue fine tip Sharpie so I decided to use that. How much difference could there be between a fine tip and an extra fine tip? My hand was actually trembling and my heart was racing. I was thinking this is crazy, I’m just signing a book, and who wants my signature anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t sign it—I should just give her an unsigned copy—but my husband talked me into it. I wrote out what I wanted to say on a separate piece of paper so I wouldn’t destroy a book with my scribble. I took a few deep breaths, and signed on the title page (another rule of signing). Well, I was using an older Sharpie and the tip was too thick so the ink showed through the page. Damn! And after I had finished, I thought of so many other things I wanted to say to her. My husband assured me that I was overthinking the whole thing and she would love it.
He took the book with him to work.
