“Now, sit here until you write your next post” (at least until the timer goes off) I say to myself.
Okay, yes, the book is finished, now comes the heart-cramping part, the effort to do something I’ve never done before: market myself, put myself in public view and pretend “I got this.”
I’ve emailed the publisher twice with, “What is it that I’m supposed to do?” The reply gets automatically thrown in the trash file because I’m too frightened to proceed.
Fear is a nasty feeling, all creepy and gummy. Denial of fear is insidious, and familiar as breath.
I tap on my breastbone, my forehead, perform the havening exercise, do the animal alphabet game, count inhales and exhales. “You can do this, Daryl, just study the reading series list and choose one. Make one call. Breathe.”
Okay, I made a date for next week to have a person-to-person call. I wrote out a list of questions I have and emailed them.
Thank goodness, the timer went off before I took some incriminating action. I’ve sat here for 15 minutes. Now I can listen to my next book on tape.