My novel, Silence in the Mist, was released for sale early this morning. Like most authors, I worked, hoped and prayed for this day for many years. I should be popping open a bottle of bubbly and toasting my accomplishment, but instead, I sit nervously twisting my fingers and willing the bile to move down my throat and back into my stomach.
I believe I now have a slight idea what it must have been like for a French aristocrat to lie on his stomach, his neck in the lunette, waiting for the blade to fall.
Will readers appreciate the years of research that went into writing Silence in the Mist? Will they like my heroine? Will they leave glowing reviews? Or will they turn on me like a Parisian mob, cruelly flinging barbs and maybe even a few rotten tomatoes? Will this be the end of my writing career?
These are the thoughts that occupy space in my brain on this morning.
I know my worries are not original. Every author has fretted over the release of their first novel. The agony and ecstasy of publishing. Will the blade fall or will I receive a reprieve, complete with champagne toasts?