Exposed

Somewhere during September 2008 I became an officially published writer. The exact date is unclear because I'm not sure exactly when the first book came off the press, but the first time I actually held a book in my hand that had my name listed as a contributing writer was Saturday, September 20th. There were my words, my thoughts, my fictitious names (to protect the innocent referenced), my emotions, my heart, my mind - all spilled across the pages for the world to see. Or the world who might know me. Or one of the other writers. Okay, definitely my mom.

What started over a year ago as one woman's idea had come full circle; turning her labor of love and the efforts of an army of contributors into an actual book. Knowing Pains: Women on Love, Sex and Work in Our 40s marked my debut in the published world.

Being published - and promoted - is a mixed bag of feelings for me. On the one hand, it means that maybe my B.A. in English paid off. And it means I can forever say, yes, I'm a writer. I've been published. It also means that my emotions are exposed more than I would ever share in real life. And where I would've been much more prone to self-depracating sarcasm and crafty witticisms were it a collection of my own essays and musings, when I was asked to contribute one essay about being 40, my state of mind left me no choice but to be vulnerable and honest. Damn you, state of mind!

Because the problem then became - as months morphed into a year, and my chosen topic was Being Single - that my snarkier side returned, vulnerability was shelved, and the men I'd dallied with and lost - and written about - started to blur into a distant, fairly emotionless, blur. Had I really had such strong emotions around each of them? Emotions not actually centered on them per se, but rather on them post-relationship with me? Or, to be more succinct, me in relationship to THEM? It was almost like re-reading your diary. Eww.

But there I am, on paper, in a book, available on Amazon.com. I've told friends and family. I've tried to prepare them for this possibly unexpected display of vulnerability and angst. I'm still me, I can still be bitter, funny, wry, sarcastic, juvenile, narrow-minded, catty, self-conscious, self-deprecating and gross. I just didn't have any of that in me at the time I started my involvement with this project. Okay, maybe I had bitter. And sarcastic. A little sarcastic.

Anywhere, there I am. Exposed. You blog-readers - and I'm grateful for all 5 of you! - maybe you'll be able to say you were reading me way back when, when I first got published. On Being Single, by Samantha Pinney.