Today, fresh off the presses and through the miracle of Fed Ex, I’m getting the first hardcover copy of my book, the culmination of several years of late nights and weekends, difficult reporting, and stressful work. I have only one thing I want to say about it: Weeeeee. Though I already know what the book looks like and what it says, it’s still exciting, like Christmas and a birthday rolled into the same 24 hours.
Traditionally, this is the part where I lie and pretend I was a voracious reader as a kid, and that the tactile sensations of the printed word are woven tightly into my being. (“What can it be, grandfather?” I said, eagerly removing string and brown paper from this newest of treasures. “It it called Little Men, lad, and I trust you will cherish it as much as I.”) But the truth is, I wasn’t like that at all. From grades 1 through 7, I didn’t read much of anything unless I was forced to, not counting Mad, Superman, and the epic novels starring boy scientist Danny Dunn. (Which still hold up, despite what this guy says.) I slowly came around to reading and writing, but it wasn’t by virtue of a self-determined work ethic or a throbbing mind, that’s for sure.
As for this book … Like anybody who’s tried to do something that was probably out of his league, I owe more than I can repay to friends, family, and teachers who encouraged me in a thousand different ways. I’ll be thinking of them today.