When Your Words Become a Book

I've written a book.

Even typing that feels a little bit strange.

This week, an actual physical copy of my first poetry book is going to arrive at my door.

My words.

My poems.

My doodles.

In a book.

And I can't quite get my head around that yet.

What I can get my head around is the more than 12 hours I spent sitting at a computer getting it ready.

Because bloody hell, writing a book is hard work.

And strangely enough, the writing isn't necessarily the hardest part.

The poems already existed. Some were written years ago, others much more recently. They come from different versions of me, different experiences and different points in my life.

But having a collection of poems and having a book are two very different things.

There was choosing what went in.

Choosing what didn't.

Finding an order.

Moving things around.

Reading it again.

Changing something.

Reading it again.

Changing it back.

Formatting.

Checking pages.

Checking them again.

Wondering whether something looked right.

Deciding it didn't.

Changing it.

Then discovering I'd changed something else in the process.

At some point I realised I'd been sitting at the computer for more than 12 hours.

That's a long time for anyone.

For someone who would much rather put pen to paper, it felt even longer.

My eyes hurt. My back hurt. My brain had pretty much given up and I'm fairly certain there were points where I was staring at the same page without actually taking in a single word.

There was also the doubt.

Should this poem be in there?

Is this good enough?

Will anyone actually want to read it?

Am I really doing this?

Then came the technical side of publishing.

Uploading files. Checking the preview. Sorting the cover. Trying to work out settings that seemed determined to send me somewhere completely different every time I clicked on them.

And then, in true Daisy fashion, I pressed publish when I actually meant to wait.

Of course I did.

For a brief moment I thought I'd completely messed it up.

Thankfully, I hadn't.

And now I've ordered my proof copy.

It's coming this week.

Suddenly those 12-plus hours don't seem quite so bad.

Because somewhere right now there is a book being printed with my name on it.

That's the bit that's getting me.

I've been published before. I've had individual poems and pieces of writing out in the world. I've seen my work in anthologies.

But this is different.

This one is mine.

A collection of my words, brought together in one place.

And those words carry a lot.

There are pieces of who I was, who I became and who I am now within those pages.

Some were written through difficult periods. Some came from healing. Some came from nature, relationships, anger, humour, reflection and those random thoughts that suddenly become a poem because apparently that's what my brain does.

And amongst those words are my doodles too.

Little marks and drawings that are just as much a part of my creativity as the words themselves.

When I started writing some of these poems, I wasn't thinking about a book.

I was simply writing.

Getting something out.

Making sense of something.

Finding words when sometimes speaking them was much harder.

And now they've found their way here.

Into my first book.

I think that's why receiving it is going to feel emotional.

I'm expecting I'll probably inspect it first and immediately notice something I'd like to change — because that's who I am.

But I also want to remember to stop.

Hold it.

Look at my name on the cover.

Open it.

Smell it, obviously, because it's a new book and that's compulsory.

And let myself feel proud.

Because sometimes we're so quick to move onto the next thing that we don't properly acknowledge what we've just done.

There will always be another idea.

Another poem.

Another application.

Another project.

Probably another book.

But there will only ever be one first book.

And mine is being delivered this week.

Suddenly, those 12 hours at the computer feel completely worth it.

I wrote a book.

Bloody hell.