The Randy Romance Novelist(56)
“This. Is. AMAZING!” I cried, holding my heart while looking around, not really sure where to start. “Who’s here? Anyone I might have read?”
“Probably. This is a fantastic lineup of authors. Tickets have been sold out for a while, but thankfully I know the event coordinator and was able to secure two tickets for us. Are you ready for this?”
“Do they take credit cards?” I asked, holding up my debit card I’d magically extracted from my wallet without even knowing.
“Oh, they do. This is your lucky day!”
I fist pumped the air, nearly crushing my card with my super human book love power.
“Then let’s spend some money!”
Like a giddy little schoolgirl, I skipped along from table to table, meeting authors, grabbing every piece of swag I could find, cherishing them as my very own treasures, and buying paperbacks that I either had read, or wanted to read.
I made sure to go to every table, to introduce myself, and shake hands with some of the nicest people I had ever met. Even if I didn’t buy a paperback, they still wanted to talk to me, they wanted to know about my book, and they told me to write them if I had any questions about the process.
I had never felt so accepted in my life. On Facebook, the book groups gave me a small glimpse of what this community was like, but now, I fully understood.
Books didn’t just expand your imagination and take you into another world where reality was a far off memory. Books connected souls. Books created a common ground for everyone to walk on, no matter your background, your fortunes or misgivings, books brought readers and authors together to form an unyielding and beautiful bond.
Women could be catty at times, they could be backstabbing, and they could be straight-up trolls if they were in the mood. Not here, not in this world. This community was about empowering women and seeing your friends succeed at a daunting task: writing a book.
I never really thought about the notion until I talked to some of the authors at the signing. Writing a book wasn’t just typing out words onto your computer that twisted into a plot. It was taking a little piece of your soul and letting it bleed out for everyone to read and judge. To write a book was like capturing a moment in your life and exposing it for prying and curious eyes.
I understood that very clearly.
What I accomplished only a few days ago was a feat on its own: writing a novel. I poured my heart and soul into it, exposing my flaws, my insecurities, and some of my most embarrassing moments.
And once I published my book, I wouldn’t sit there and look at the sales page, trying to figure out if this would be a future I could pursue. Instead, I would sit back and be proud of my accomplishment.
I wrote a book.
Even if only one person bought it, I would still consider myself an author.
“Are you okay?” Wendy asked, coming up to me from behind.
I wiped my tears away and nodded. “Yeah, I’ve just been emotional lately. A lot’s been going on. I needed this day. I feel refreshed, I feel welcomed, I feel like I’m a part of something.”
“You are,” Wendy smiled at me. “You are very much a part of this world. I actually have a couple of ladies I want to introduce to you.” Wendy turned me around to two authors I couldn’t even fathom meeting.
Debra Anastasia and Helena Hunting.
They didn’t know it, but I stalked them. I stalked them hard.
I stood there, frozen, unable to speak. All that flew through my head was yeti’s and pads, yeti’s and pads.
“Debra, Helena, I want you to meet my friend, Rosie Bloom. She’s an aspiring author and just finished her first romantic comedy. I’ve had the privilege of reading it, and I’m going to tell you right now, this girl is going places.”
I held out my hand and started to babble, cutting them both off before they could introduce themselves. “I want a pad; can I have a pad? I need a sanitary napkin with your signature on it. I actually have one; will you sign it, Debra?” Without even looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out one of the pads I kept on hold for my bruised vagina. I didn’t care if my pubic bone had to sit on hard wood today, I would be getting these ladies to sign my spare pussel pad. “And Helena, sign my boob, or my armpit. Yes! Sign my armpit! I haven’t shaved in two days so it resembles a yeti…in a way. Will you sign my armpit?” My arm flew straight up in the air—the one holding the sanitary napkin—and I pulled down my sleeve with the other, exposing my hairy armpit to Debra and Helena . . . the book world’s salt and pepper. I had zero shame and my self-respect flew out the window the minute I stepped into the room.
Kindly, they both looked at each other and then laughed. Debra stepped forward and pet my armpit hair. She turned to Helena and said, “I think this one is a dirty slut.”
“I cuncur, Pepper!” Helena reached out and gave my pit a pat. “That’s some serious armpit hair you’ve got going on. Soon you’ll be able to braid it like you’re on a tropical vacation.”
“I heard that if you like to swallow semen that the hair around your erogenous zones grows faster. It’s a hold over from the dinosaur years.” Debra pulled down my arm and pushed my face in her bosom.
“Is that a fact? I suppose it makes sense, seeing as body hair would’ve been integral to the whole staying warm business back then, eh?” Helena strokes my hair affectionately, while Debra continues with the forced boob nuzzles. I’m unsure if I’m supposed to motorboat.