Simile day

My book is finally out in the world. It happened last Friday, and since then I’ve been thinking about what it feels like. I’ve come up with many similes for all the things that have been going through my head. I’m sure most of them won’t be all that original, seeing as there have been millions of first-time authors throughout history, but I’m going to tell you some all the same.

Most people refer to a new book as a baby. I understand why they would. Not everyone falls in love with their babies from the get-go, because the process until you have the finished product in your arms is extremely hard. The first thing you feel is relief, not joy. Of course, sowing the seed (pun very much intended, even if it’s an easy one) is great fun, but everything that comes after that is laborious to a level which no-one can prepare you for, however much they try. With writing there are not really any sleepless nights, unless you choose to, but in exchange the pregnancy lasts way more than 40 weeks. Once I had my ‘baby’ in my hands, all I could think about was whether there were any typos on the cover (see my previous entry, ‘In defence of pedants’), which must be the equivalent of checking whether your real baby has three heads or slit pupils. I know it goes against what popular culture would have you think happens when you first lay eyes on your baby, but popular culture would also have you think that Bruce Willis can crash through a window barefoot and still kick butt. But I digress.

The aspect of publishing a book that is now causing me sleepless nights is promotion. It has also been the biggest source of similes. Most of them have compared promotion with traumatising my testicles with various tools (sandpaper, a hammer, garden shears). However, my stress has also made similes involving my nails, especially the gap between them and the flesh underneath, the hair in my nostrils (each post on Instagram is the equivalent of pulling out three or four hairs, root and all) and my skin (with every ‘please read my book’ I scrape a bit of it off with my Parmesan grater). I can say ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘embarrassed’ in the six languages of the United Nations plus three more, because I want to be prepared in case I have to explain my predicament to an international audience.

I know I should be happy, and I really am. At least I think I am. Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I? However, it’s not the unbridled joy I had expected. I realise that having the book published is like running a marathon: you’re happy about the achievement, but you’re doubly happy about not having to run any longer. Everything would be well and good if that were the end of it, but the promotion aspect means that I get a measly drink of water and I have to run another marathon. Uphill. Over craggy rocks. Next to the 300 other people who also got their book published last Friday. If I slow down, I will be caught up by the people who started their second marathon a day after me. Besides, the peak is obscured by clouds, so I don’t even know how much longer I’ve got to go. I do know it’s snowing up there, though.

Nevertheless, what’s the alternative? Here’s another simile: promoting the book is like helping your kids study a subject you hated at school. In my case, it was maths, no doubt about it. Having to put up with endless evenings of trying to figure out algebra, as well as other things that I never fully understood, is even worse when you have to relive it with your kids. Not only do you have to put up with the maths, but also with the agony of seeing your kids suffer, and of knowing perfectly well what they’re going through. But again, what’s the alternative? You brought your babies into this world, it’s up to you to make sure they grow happy. You love them, so you just put your head down and do it. However, that is another process that is laborious to a level which no-one can prepare you for.

Wish me luck.