Yesterday, I received the first layout draft of my book from the publisher. Now it’s time for the next round of revisions: checking margins, avoiding bad line breaks, eliminating “widows and orphans” (yes, that’s really what they’re called). Maybe I’ll write a post about the whole process of writing and publishing a book sometime soon – if you’re interested.
What feels more and more real is this: the book is nearing completion. And it’s actually going to be published. End of September. Wild.
Tomorrow, I have a meeting with my agent to talk about ideas for a new book project. All of it is exciting and fulfilling – but it also triggers critical thoughts. Especially about myself.
Because I still don’t quite believe it: that I’m an author. Sure, I’ve written all my life, published academic texts, written a book, translated three more – but to actually say “I am an author”? I hesitate. It feels like I’m overstepping. Like it’s too big for me. “Just a small book on the side…”
But isn’t that what being an author is? Writing. Publishing. Being read.
Maybe it takes more than just self-attribution. Maybe it also takes others naming it: when my agent, my publisher, other authors, media, or readers refer to me as an author – then I start to believe it a little more.
The theme of “belonging” still accompanies me here. As it does in many roles in my life: translator, podcaster, counselor. I do all of it with passion. But because I don’t do any one of them “full-time,” I often wonder if I’m allowed to claim them. If I truly belong.
Maybe I can just acknowledge: I am many things. And writing is one of them. I write – therefore I am (also) an author.
So glad you’re here. 💛
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