Special Delivery

Well, they’re here! Thirty copies of The One Before the First. It took long enough, mind you!

The first batch I ordered through Amazon. I love the ease of KDP, I really do—but ordering author copies is an absolute nightmare. I’d been watching that little green tracker dot like a hawk most of the afternoon. It got close—mere stops away—then suddenly changed to “delivering tomorrow.” Then, the next day: “undeliverable.” No books. No explanation. Still no refund. Annoying.

So, I ordered another thirty (after payday, naturally—starving artist and all that) through IngramSpark, and they arrived within days. Only this time, despite being home at the allotted time, they were delivered early and taken to my local Morrisons. I’m starting to develop a complex.

Anyway, they’re here now. My books—sat in our living room, stacked in glorious defiance of every doubt, every imposter syndrome spiral, every “maybe I should just give up” moment.

Madly, I don’t know whether to touch them as little as possible to avoid fingerprint marks, or lay them all out on the carpet and just lie on them.

Today’s been one of those long, chaotic days where I feel like I’m always ten steps behind. Nigel had been away for work for two nights, and neither of us had slept well apart—we never do—and work had been manic. But when I finally opened the box—Nigel now watching the six o’clock news from his usual spot on the sofa, smiling at me, eyes glistening with gentle pride—I got the moment I’d been waiting for.

It felt sacred and ridiculous all at once. After pulling out wad upon wad of scrunched-up brown paper, there they were. It's surreal. This is what every writer dreams of. A real, tangible stack.

There’s something so satisfying about seeing them en masse, like a little monochrome army I can now unleash into the world. I messaged 20 libraries last night and a few bookshops further afield (while most people were doing sensible things like sleeping), and now I’m prepping to pester every local indie bookshop that’ll let me through the door.

Dauntingly, I now have to be that person—the one who tries to convince strangers to take an interest in my mopey poetry. Pretending to be sociable and approachable, even though the thought of self-promotion—and ironically, the thought of anyone actually reading my work—makes me want to vomit.

And yes, there will undoubtedly be many “Thanks, but no thanks.” But maybe—just maybe—one or two will say yes.

Here’s hoping.

Previous
Previous

One Before The First - An Interview

Next
Next

Nosferatu Review