Today I’m hosting Anastasia Vitsky. Please come in and visit. Welcome!!
Ana and I met through an excellent mutual friend and I asked for permission to share something of hers that I’d read. I know you’ll enjoy it too. Go for it Ana –
Many of us say that our books are like babies. While few would disagree, I was surprised after some reflection to realize just how true this truism actually is, as they say, “in real life”.
• They keep me up at night when I should be sleeping.
• They follow me around everywhere. I can’t stop thinking about them, either.
• No matter how much time and attention I give, it’s never enough.
• Each change or correction is painful.
• I am so close to them that it’s hard for me to see how other people see them.
• I asked many people for advice but finally had to learn to trust my own judgment.
• They compete with each other so that it’s difficult to focus on one at a time. Plus, they get jealous of time I spend with the other ones.
• I want everyone else to like them.
• If they don’t make a good impression, I worry what others will think about me.
• Someone being mean to or about them will make me furious.
• It was a long, long, long painful gestation and delivery.
• Mood swings, irritability, and emotional highs/lows were a part of life until they were born. Sometimes afterward, too.
• The further overdue the delivery, the more impatient and painful the contractions.
• Sometimes I despaired whether conception would actually happen.
• The first time someone said something nice about them, I was over the moon.
• Sometimes I only see all of the mistakes I made in creating and raising them. Other times I am amazed that they really came from me.
• I could spend hours talking about them and showing pictures, and the way to my heart is to say that you love them.
• They never would have come into existence without the help, support, and love of an extended network of friends and family.
• Sometimes I need to learn how to let go and accept that others can give me better advice about my books than I can.
• I support other book-babies in the community, but wayyyyy deep down inside I secretly hope that people will like mine just a teeny bit better. Or at least one person will.
• Sometimes when I look at all that other authors’ book-babies are accomplishing, I sigh and wonder if my book-babies will measure up. Then I try to reassure myself that each one is special in its own way.
• When we finally have to send our book-babies out into the cold cruel world, all we can do is hope for the best. We loved, nurtured, and prepared them as well as we could. Now it’s time to let them flourish on their own.
Anastasia Vitsky has two great loves in life: books and babies. Her friends know not to expect any attention if a baby, especially a newborn, is in the room. She finds her books much quieter but less affectionate than the average baby. She is anxiously awaiting the birth of her first book-baby, The Way Home, to be delivered at Lazy Day Publishing. Due date is March 2013. Another book-baby, The Vengeance of Mrs. Claus, should make its appearance by Christmas. Her current work-in-progress depicts a 20-something American studying abroad in Asia. She can be found on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.
Excerpt from The Way Home:
I groan at the sunlight bombarding my face, and I cover my eyes with the back of my right arm. I forgot to close the industrial-ish white blinds last night, and Mr. Sunshine has woken me bright and early. I throw back my covers, pad into the bathroom, and splash some water on my face. Might as well get up for real, I think. I didn’t like being reduced to three-quarter time when the budget cuts rolled around four months ago, especially since I was one of the most senior salesclerks. Or sales associates. The management thinks a fancy title will camouflage our tiny paychecks. But even though the smaller pay forced me to downsize when finally getting an apartment of my own again, on days like this I appreciate the leisurely start to the day. Or what would be a leisurely start if I could remember to shut out the sun.
I trudge to the kitchen, open the fridge, and blearily search for the peanut butter before remembering that Natalie is no longer around to hide my favorite morning toast spread. Try as I might, I never could break her of the habit of refrigerating perfectly good peanut butter.
“It won’t spread when it’s cold!” I insisted.
“It melts onto your hot toast, anyway. Besides, do you want food poisoning?”
Natalie has this phobia about food poisoning. She is absolutely certain that every food must be refrigerated or else it will grow lethal germs. I tried to explain that my Jif contained approximately as many preservatives as a Botox injection and that a germ would have to be bio-genetically engineered in order to survive in all of the chemicals found in the modern wonder known as Jif Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter. It didn’t matter. Every morning, I would complain to Natalie about my cold peanut butter and she would tell me to get over it. Natalie doesn’t even like peanut butter. She just feels very, very strongly about food safety.
As I open a cupboard to take out my soft, easy-to-spread room-temperature Jif, I unscrew the cap and dip my index finger in for a taste. I absent-mindedly lick the peanut butter from my finger as I hunt for my English muffin toasting bread. I pat down my counter top before I realize that the bread actually is in the fridge. I pop the bread in the toaster, take out a plate, and find a butter knife to spread the peanut butter.
Waiting for the toast to pop up, I nearly drop my knife as my phone rings. I didn’t expect someone this early. I cross the room, knife still in hand, and pick up the receiver.
“Kat. I need the house key I gave you.” Natalie’s voice is strained, terse.
One part of my brain notices that the toaster has finished toasting and has begun scorching. I broke my good toaster the first week after I moved in, and budget constraints forced me to find a replacement at Goodwill. This one does the job, but the pop up button almost never works. I have to manually pop the bread to finish the cycle.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“At the hospital. Room 568.”
“At the hospital??? But…but…why are you at—“