There's nothing like a first book to make you feel vulnerable, insecure. I Google reviews, feel a stab in my heart when someone tosses out a bit of criticism on Goodreads. I feel as though I am annoying friends and family with my promotional announcements, my pleas for folks to attend my readings. I picture the sound of my voice bouncing around in an empty bookstore.
But this is silly stuff. And among the small bouts of narcissism and worry comes a beautiful reminder that reviews and readings will never make my heart swell the way it did when I held my niece for the first time a few days ago.
It's not that I'm not emotionally-invested in my book - I am. And I will still worry, and I will still feel the pangs of insecurity as people talk about the book (or don't talk about it at all). But I love when perspective comes rushing at me this way, that little bitch-slap of reason, clarity coming to me in the form of a cooing, snoring six-pound infant in a plush onesie. The big things - not so big in their weight, but their weight in your heart.