Holding your first book in your hands for the first time is a strange and wondrous feeling. I remember rushing to the pop up store at the National Library that sold my book, asking to have a copy. The cashier at the counter was stunned to see me hold up my IC and ask me to have my book. They made a few calls with the publisher, (because my publisher was supposed to hand me the books but they were running late) and I finally got a copy of Dragonhearted.
It was my book. These were my words. In print.
I was floored.
I cannot even begin how to describe how I felt. I choked up a little, because I was finally seeing my words in print. This was a gigantic “f*** you” to all the people and relatives who implied that what I was doing stupid, useless, and had no future. Against their wishes and put downs, I had done it. Me. That alone was enough for my heart to feel like it was about to burst, and I almost started to cry. I had finally done it. Time stopped. Life suddenly had meaning. Whatever I had studied, read, and re-written was worthwhile.
I dislike empty positivity and blind optimism, but that day, I felt like whatever I wanted to do was possible, and it all started with my book.