There is a slight coolness to the air when I walk the dog in the mornings. A handful of crisp, yellow leaves float on the breeze. Autumn is around the corner and my first book is making its way into the world. I am both excited and super nervous, probably in equal measure. Excited because it feels like the most extraordinary gift - to know that this work has the potential to touch readers of all ages - which in many ways is why I write in the first place. Nervous because of the raw vulnerability that comes with that. What if nobody likes it? What if readers fall asleep half way through? What if the reviews are publicly critical to the point of being embarrassing? There is no end to the list of sweaty-palmed ‘What-ifs.’
But then I walk on. We wind our way through the trees, and I take in a long, deep breath. I listen to the wind as it sways the branches and remind myself that the only piece of this I get to control as a writer is the writing of the story. The research, the drafting and re-drafting, the listening, the exploring, the work. Work from a place of heart and humility. And now that it’s being published, it’s not really my book any more. It belongs to the world, to the reader, whoever they may be.
Sometimes we read to feel comforted, sometimes we read to feel less alone, sometimes we read for the sheer joy and escapism of being swept away by a story or simply to be entertained, to laugh. Whatever you need from a book right now - or what a child in your life might need from a book right now - I hope it can be found in Wildoak. I also hope you don’t fall asleep half way through… and if you do enjoy it, that you’ll let me know.