SO HEY, NATALIE JEAN

So.

Soooo I wrote a book, and now you can buy it. You can buy it! It's so weird! It's been in the top ten on Amazon in style + fashion for over a week now! SO weird. If you preordered it, it should be arriving on your doorstep some time tomorrow. You can buy it, and you can read it, and I now live in a bizarro reality universe where dummies like me can be called published authors and give Skype interviews to publications in South Africa and plan book tours to Europe and give presentations at conferences. There are 36 copies of a book with my photo on the cover staring at me from my living room floor as we speak, 36 copies of me, me, me, me times thirty-six, and when I walk past them I have to stifle a laugh and the urge to roll my eyes, because, COME ON. Who's idea was this, who came up with this one? How one earth did I manage dupe somebody into thinking this was a good idea? It's too weird. Is this real life? I think it is definitely too weird.

So I went into the Barnes & Noble in Park Slope yesterday. I also bought a green bagel yesterday, and saw Fifty Shades of Grey yesterday, and it was a really good bagel, and mostly a really stupid movie, and I enjoyed every stupid moment of it. The movie ended and I left the theatre and I checked my phone and I saw that a reader had just bought my book, like, in the person bought my book, in a store. And then my heart was pounding. And for the first time in this whole book-making experience I thought to myself, THIS MIGHT ACTUALLY WORK. This might be a thing, a real, real thing. And it might be okay to feel proud of myself? It might be okay to feel excited about this.

In the middle of the movie a part of the ceiling broke open, and then all this water started falling like a waterfall, everywhere. There were just three others with me in this theatre seeing this embarrassing movie, and it managed to open right above this really nice old lady who was probably in her 80s, and I thought to myself, what are the odds!? Of all the seats in this big empty theatre, and it falls on her. And what is she doing here anyway?? I tried to picture her reading the books on the subway, it was kind of a fantastic thought.

My phone in my hand, I made my way out the theatre doors and into the bookstore doors ten windy blocks later feeling distinctly outside of myself. All these parts of me scattered everywhere; hair in my eyes, hair in my mouth, fingers frozen solid, a little out of breath. I nervously bit my thumb as I wandered slowly from aisle to aisle, limbs gently thawing, face kind of buzzing. I eyed spines carefully as I passed, trying to guess where it was I'd finally find myself. We had a lot of discussion over how to categorize this thing; Is it parenting? Is it essays? Nonfiction? Style? Interiors? Marriage and Relationships? Self-help?? Is there a "Really Dumb" category? There should be, definitely I'd be in that one. I was not in self-help. Good. Not in marriage, kind of relieved. Not in essays either, that's too bad (maybe next time?). I passed the information desk and an employee there looked available, so I decided to cheat and ask him where I was. "Can you help me find a book?" "Sure, who's the author?" "Um, me?"

H-O-L, B-R, O-O-K. Yep, that's it. Yeah, it's a long title.  

He led me to the back of the store. A-ha! Parenting! Parenting??

And then there I was, just sitting there looking at myself, face out, like you could just buy me or something. Two copies left. It was weird. It was really weird. I have 36 of them staring at me from my living room floor, why should this be weird? "Would you sign them?" the guy asked, and I said back, "I'm allowed to do that??" My clueless was totally showing. He nodded to me kindly as he handed me his pen, and then off he went to get a few of those special "Signed By The Author" stickers that I've sometimes seen on books before, and then I was like, holy shit. If I could go back in time to Moscow and tap on my office door and peek around the corner and say, "Hey, get this," what would I have said back to myself? The whole thing is rather asinine.   

I knelt down on the floor. It was totally surreal. I looked around at the other shop patrons and felt so incredibly strange. My fingers were still pretty frozen and I kind of desperately wanted to disappear, which was not a feeling I was expecting to feel in that moment. A second employee rounded the corner while I sat there with my face scrunched up, pen hovering midair, contemplating what the heck to write. "I'm not vandalizing I promise," I said once she was standing right next to me. "It's mine. I mean, I wrote it." And then I thought about how funny it would be if I drew a mustache on one of the pictures of me.

Side note: It is probably going to be difficult for me to ever top that mix of simultaneous embarrassment + pride + complete stupidity that I was feeling in that moment.

She congratulated me on my accomplishment. I frowned at my poor penmanship. We talked for a minute. The other guy came back with the stickers. And then I ducked on outta there feeling sort of like I was naked.

When I got home, I cried.

Let's be real here. I am not anything special. I'm not the first blogger to publish a book, and I certainly won't be the last. My book is probably not going to change your life. It's not horribly profound or all that impressive; I'm unimpressive, in fact. I'm not the prettiest. My sense of style + home decor aren't terribly unique, my grasp on marriage and parenting are decent at best. I'm not an expert on anything, except for maybe what kinds of foods you should avoid while drinking a Diet Coke, like bananas, you shouldn't ever eat a banana with a side of Diet Coke unless you want your mouth to mimic a science fair volcano, but do you see what I mean here? Why on earth should anybody care what I think about anything? I'm fickle. I tend to change my mind about things almost constantly. I don't have an impressive education. Also, I'm a flake. I'm a total flake, and I have a hard time answering emails on time. I get hung up on very unimportant, terribly shallow things. I haven't called my mother in weeks. The laundry sits wet in the washing machine long enough sometimes that it starts to smell bad and I have to run it a second time before it hits the dryer. I'm sure I don't deserve these opportunities, and if I happen to read any negative reviews I will agree with every word of them and it will definitely make me cry. The nastier things people have written about me online are most likely true, let's be honest. Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?

"Who are you, Luther Heggs, to be guest speaker at this luncheon?"

Right? Total Luther Heggs moment here. Pages flying in the wind.

But this, I think, is what it comes down to:

Our stories are worth telling. Even the dumb, imperfect ones.

Our weaknesses, our humiliations, our struggles and insecurities. Our flaws. These are the beautiful bits. These are the parts we should be celebrating in each other. These are the parts I am proudest to be sharing.

This afternoon I had the weird honor of reading my very first book review online. Kerri Jarema wrote it for Lydia Mag, you can find it here. I read it with my heart in my throat, my breath in the air, and when I got to the end of it I felt a little lighter. She gets it, I thought. There are people that get it. Not everyone is going to get it, it's true, but I can't forget to remember that there are people who will get it.

It's small, but it's there. I'm starting to feel a little bit proud of this thing. I'm starting to feel a little bit excited. 

And to you that "get it," however few or however many you are, the book is for you. I wrote it for you. I wrote this for you because I've been so blessed by you + your strength + your companionship. Well, I wrote it because a publishing company asked me to and offered to pay me money, but mostly I wrote it for you. Because I like you. I like this little tribe of ours. I'm proud of us. I like to picture my book finding its way into your hands and into your homes. I do hope you enjoy it. I hope it cracks a little smile, and maybe half a chuckle. Half a chuckle and I've won the world.

It may not be much. I may not be much. But together we're a lot. I wrote it for us.