Authors, I think, are supposed to be a cool lot. Blasé, unemotional maybe, and certainly never, ever, prone to outbursts of childish excitement.
At least, that’s my image of authors. Real ones anyway. The kind who make their living doing that authoring stuff. I mean, can you picture Elmore Leonard giggling? JD Salinger high five-ing Ayn Rand?
Yeah, me neither.
If that premise is true, then I don’t know what that makes me. Because I just got the first proof of my novel—colour cover and everything—and I’m everything but stoic.
So waddya think?
As for me…
Am I thrilled? You bet.
Ecstatic? Roger that.
Apprehensive? A bit.
Nervous? Oh yeah.
Childishly excited? Count on it.
Then I read the instructions that said something about carefully reviewing the draft and sending any corrections to the editor, who will then review it as well.
Oh great. It’s proofreading time.
I bet that never happens to Leonard…
