This afternoon I logged in to the local library catalogue with one purpose. I’d heard the library had bought my recently published 1950s school memoir, ‘West End the Best End,’ and I wanted to find out if the rumour was true.
My heart pounded and I hoped no one watched as I typed in the book title. All logic abandoned me. No one in the library would have recognised me anyway. It still felt wrong, searching for one’s own book.
How can I describe the elation of finding the library had purchased not one, but two copies of my book. While the books are not on the shelves yet, the catalogue entry assured me they would soon be available. For someone who loves the local library as much as I do, this was like a dream come true. A book on the library shelf is the biggest warm fuzzy I can imagine right now.
I feel that now, knowing my book will soon be on the library shelves, I can call myself a real writer. This is reaffirmed by the knowledge that work on my next book is under way.
All I can say to anyone yet to have a book published is hang on in there. You’re never too old to publish – I’m well into my sixties. The thrill of having my work available for others beyond the school community to read is as exciting as when I received books every year in my Christmas stocking. Christmas came early for me this year.