The Cruel Privilege of Being Published
I can remember the feeling of holding my book for the first time fresh from the printer. Fanning through the pages the smell of ink and paper bleach. Half a decade of striving, of fate left in the capricious hands of editors, publishers and publishing houses, was now over. Here, right here, in my hands was something that justified sacrificing career progression, time, enough cash for a house deposit, even a relationship.
The worst thing that could happen now would be that one day I would pass Bargain Basement Bookshop in the central station tunnel, on my way to work and see my book there in a stack of identical siblings - a pink flouro sticker that would leave traces of white that would turn to mouldy black over time - $34 down to $3. That I could handle.
I wasn’t going to have a launch party. It seemed self-indulgent. But friends coaxed me into it. You have achieved something - you...
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