Naseem Rakha's Blog - Posts Tagged "countdown"
Three weeks to go.....
Two days ago I received an overnight package. It was my book. Hardback edition, signed, sealed and delivered.
It was a surreal experience, mostly because it felt so quiet. No fanfare, no adrenaline rush. Just a package I'd been expecting and, yes, there it was, and didn't it look nice? And look there is my name on my book, my baby, my child.
My nine year old son was home, so was a friend of his. Together we opened the envelope. We each handled the book. Touched its cover, opened it. Closed it. Someone sniffed it. Maybe it was the dog. But really it should have been me. Instead, I simply put it on the coffee table and then went back to my computer as Elijah and his friend went off to explore the woods.
An hour later, we went to the pool, and I finished reading Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson, and thought of books and authors and all they do to put their words in front of others hoping someone will pick it up and read and understand.
Maybe that why I am so subdued. The act of writing is an act of faith, hoping beyond hope that someone somewhere will pick up what you wrote and say, yes -- I feel this. I am touched. I am changed. That is what good books do for me, and it seems like an incredibly steep and scary slope to hope that that is what I will do for others. But it can't be denied
It can, however, be ignored -- in spurts. So I take my son to the pool and then out for ice-cream and then we climb the hill back home, and eat our dinner on the deck and watch a deer trot across the field, and do not mention reading or writing or my brand new book sitting on the coffee table -- waiting for me to give it a good sniff.
It was a surreal experience, mostly because it felt so quiet. No fanfare, no adrenaline rush. Just a package I'd been expecting and, yes, there it was, and didn't it look nice? And look there is my name on my book, my baby, my child.
My nine year old son was home, so was a friend of his. Together we opened the envelope. We each handled the book. Touched its cover, opened it. Closed it. Someone sniffed it. Maybe it was the dog. But really it should have been me. Instead, I simply put it on the coffee table and then went back to my computer as Elijah and his friend went off to explore the woods.
An hour later, we went to the pool, and I finished reading Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson, and thought of books and authors and all they do to put their words in front of others hoping someone will pick it up and read and understand.
Maybe that why I am so subdued. The act of writing is an act of faith, hoping beyond hope that someone somewhere will pick up what you wrote and say, yes -- I feel this. I am touched. I am changed. That is what good books do for me, and it seems like an incredibly steep and scary slope to hope that that is what I will do for others. But it can't be denied
It can, however, be ignored -- in spurts. So I take my son to the pool and then out for ice-cream and then we climb the hill back home, and eat our dinner on the deck and watch a deer trot across the field, and do not mention reading or writing or my brand new book sitting on the coffee table -- waiting for me to give it a good sniff.
