Wandered around a bookstore today, just studying the covers, flipping through a few things that caught my eye. Nothing I haven't done a thousand times before, nothing that isn't an almost mindless activity for so many people every day. We touch the pages, we wait for something to speak to us, we peruse the blurbs on the back and decide, right then and there, if this is something we want to take home with us. For all the warnings about judging books by covers, it's what we do.
And then it hit me. Two weeks from now, our book will be there. It will be slid into the shelves, patiently waiting for someone to take a chance on it. All of the stress and the late nights and the inspiration, all of those things we breathed into the ether hoping that they would take form, it will become a solid reality. People might read it, and they will love it or hate it, but it will be read. Those ideas that were nothing more than fantasy have become as solid as they ever will be.
People sometimes compare their art to their children, and perhaps that's true, but the best way I can describe it is the sensation of pulling out pieces of ourselves and then walking away. Everything that we can do in the creative process is done, and now we just have to hope that our book, our creation, speaks to someone. Kind of a scary thought, to be honest. But the most exhilarating fear in the world.