Beyond the Book

I learned to love books before I could even read.

Mom is an avid reader. Some of my most precious childhood memories are of her taking my sister and I to the public library on a regular basis. Located in the centre of town, parking was usually hard to find and we would walk through a noisy amalgamation of street vendors selling their wares, parking attendants clamoring for attention, and hordes of people busily going about their day to day activities, before reaching the imposing entrance of the library building. 

Once inside the glass doors, it was quiet and tranquil. An environment far removed from the hubbub outside. Although mom would caution us to keep our voices down, we needed little reminding - the atmosphere commanded quiet, prompting us to speak in hushed tones. Mom would go off to hunt for her preferred selection of reading, leaving my sister and I to each carefully choose our quota of four books. We would peruse the seemingly endless supply of colourful volumes stacked neatly on the old wooden shelves, taking forever to pick something that looked interesting. Being surrounded by so many books seemed to cast a spell over me and it felt as if time stood still.

As soon as I learned to read, I eagerly made my way through tales of the Faraway Tree; the adventures of the Secret Seven and Hardy Boys; and avidly followed Nancy Drew as she solved one mystery after another. Back then electronic reading devices didn't exist, a book was a book, plain and simple. You made sure not to mess on it, or dog-ear the pages - else mom would get really mad! Mom was always very strict about respecting books, it never occurred to me to question why ...

As an adult, I developed a love for reading sports biographies, crime thrillers and of course a good romance (preferably whilst lazing on the beach). Regardless of how old I am, and how my reading preferences have changed over the years, one thing that has remained consistent is my enjoyment of brightly coloured covers. 

Most of all I love the smell of a book. That initial waft of paper and ink, combined with the anticipation of a story yet to be discovered, remains intoxicating and never fails to entice me to page to the first chapter.

Lately, I don’t have as much time to read as I would like, but it continues to provide temporary respite from the onslaught of social media, work, news, and daily life in general. I've had to find alternate ways to fit it in amongst many competing priorities. For example, when my husband and I travel, I use the time on the plane to catch up on long-overdue reading. It has become customary for us to pay a visit to the airport bookstore before boarding a long-haul flight. Even with the introduction of e-readers, printed books remain my preferred option.

I suppose it makes sense, then, that I have a lot of books at home. Oddly, never once did I give any thought to what was beyond the book, how the words ended up on the page, or to the person who wrote it. Much less did I ever contemplate that one day I would write one of my own.

The year 2020 fundamentally changed a lot of things for most of the world. Aside from throwing a global pandemic at humanity which necessitated an adaption to how we live, it also completely altered how I view books. It would be the year I gained firsthand knowledge of what it takes to write a manuscript. Moreover, I’d also learn that there are many necessary phases that my manuscript had to pass through as it evolved into a printed book (and its electronic equivalent). I found it to be an intense process. One that called on all my creativity, resilience, patience and endurance. My manuscript developed a life of its own, and had needs that I tried to attend to as best I could. In general, it’s safe to say that nurturing my manuscript into a book demanded an abundance of energy.

I have found that the harder I work at something, the greater the satisfaction in the end. On 27 October 2020, I held my book in my hands. It was surreal to see the brightly coloured cover with my name on the front. 

After nine months of long hours, frustration (mostly with myself); endless editing; numerous discussions with the publishing team on what to do; constant panic that I was in over my head and fear I would let my loved ones down - eventually it was real! 

My grin can't get much bigger

The scary part was that this wasn't even the end of the process. I was acutely aware that there still remained much to do. I needed to delve into the unknown territory of promoting, and I had yet to conquer the scary mountain that was social media marketing and advertising. I tried not to think of how intimidated I was by everything that had to happen. For a short while, it was enough that I held the culmination of an immense effort, in my hands. 

I could touch it, I could smell it and I could also quietly wonder where my book may, eventually, end up…. Would the cover perhaps catch someone’s eye in a bookstore at the airport, or at a library somewhere? Would it help someone pass the time on a long flight? Would it eventually stand on someone’s bookshelf, perhaps stacked next to one of my own favourite authors?  

I will never again pick up a book and see it as 'just a book'. I have only now begun to understand the massive effort required to put together that which I have previously glibly popped into my handbag or luggage. Perhaps more importantly, I have realised that there is a lot more beyond the book - the author; the support of their family and friends; and oodles of courage to print their the words for the world to read.

Moms are usually right, but particularly in this instance - books should be respected, it takes a lot more than just writing to get one on a shelf.

 

"The journey of a lifetime starts with the turning of a page"

Rachel Anders

Published by Quickshift Publishing, Running in Heels is available on Amazon and will soon be in bookstores. For up to date information on when and where you can find your copy, please check out my website, sign up for my newsletter, or find me on Linkedin, Facebook, or Instagram.