Behind the Curtain
Yesterday, I just checked some numbers. I just released a book, and for the first few days after it comes out, I track to see how well it was doing. While I was at it, I added up all the copies I had sold. Just through Kindle, without including my paperback or B&N or any other sales, I’ve sold over 30,000 books. In 214 days.
I literally have no idea what to make of this number.
Most of the time when things happen, I’ve stopped reacting. I don’t think I can really fathom what’s happening anymore. I keep expecting to wake up and have this all be fake.
When you envision something your whole life, and then it actually starts to happen, it’s somewhat confusing. When dreams become a reality, it’s hard decipher what’s real.
I think what it makes the most confusing is that I still don’t feel like an author. I’ve started referring to myself as one, but every time I say it, it feels like when I refer to myself as graceful right after I’ve tripped or smart after I’ve misspelled a word. It all feels sarcastic.
I feel so much like the Wizard of Oz. That I’ve somehow got people fooled, but you’re all going to pull back the curtain and see a cowardly old man sitting there. “Why, she’s no author at all! She’s an old fool, and she’s only been pretending!”
I guess I’d always just assumed that when I became an author, like a real author, it would be an Event. Like getting engaged or married. It would be a big deal where I could announce to the world that I’d arrived. And then I would feel different. I would be different. There would be some kind of transformation that changed from Regular me to Author me – this special person with special abilities and an impenetrable shell.
But that’s what so bizarre about this. There was no Event. Author me is Regular me. I write as often as I ever did. I sleep as often as I ever did. And I put off doing the dishes as often as I ever did.
So there it is. I’m really just a man behind a curtain.