Tomorrow is the day PRETTIEST DOLL goes on sale at
bookstores and online. It’s called a
book birthday, which is reminding me of other, different kinds of birthdays.
My son was born on December 28. I was in labor for at least 36 hours, after
being told by a chatty sonogram technician on Christmas morning, “Boy, that kid’s
got a big head.” In those days, it was
unusual to know the sex of the baby, so my husband and I were in the dark on
that score. Also in those days, they
gave you Demerol. It was fantastic.
When he was born (9 pounds, 2 ounces, 22 inches long, at
7:20 pm), I became almost instantly ecstatic in a completely new way. It wasn’t just his birthday that day. In an instant, I became a different person.
My daughter was born three and a half years later. The delivery was harder, owing to egregious
medical nincompoopery. She was born on
her due date—June 3, 10:20 am—and her gender was also a surprise. I didn’t
experience ecstasy right away (owing to the idiots who delivered her), but two
days later, there it was again. She was
7 pounds, 1 ounce and 21 inches long: a perfect little peanut of a girl.
I love all the books I’ve written, and I’m proud of each of
them. I hope lots of people buy PRETTIEST DOLL, and I hope it resonates with them, makes them laugh, makes them think and feel and wonder.
But when somebody says, Having your
book published is like having a baby, my first thought is always, No, it isn’t.
It isn’t anything like that at all.
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