The real thing

I stepped out of the house today, quietly so as not to disturb the child playing with his Nani and trying to avoid a tantrum and demands to be taken along. I was running late for my appointment for a haircut at The Hip Salon (not its real name) and so almost ignored the courier man who was stepping out of the elevator just as I was rushing out. That was before I saw what he held in his hands.

My book! It's here! I screamed and immediately snatched the parcel out of his hands. Or tried to. He made me sign something, I could have signed away my soul for all the attention I was paying.

Mamma! I shouted, letting myself back inside, they are here, the author copies!
Much excitement prevailed.

I opened a copy and read bits and pieces. I wrote it, I told myself. Naah, replied myself.

In that moment, I knew that this is what I want to do, for now and for ever.

Then I went off for my haircut.



The advantage of being the author: getting to read (pose with) the book before it hits the stands.