I finally published a book. Took me long enough. Took me so long, in fact, that I hate it. A little bit. I don’t hate it. I just don’t like that I used to sound like that. And that my mom is going to read a poem about pointless family conversations over awkward dinners and a footnote about my expectation that my family isn’t going to read my work. I guess I hate that my words are going to hurt her feelings.

Is that my responsibility? I suppose it must be. She’s a wonderful woman, so loving, so supportive, so sad. I wish I had a better collection of poetry to show her. I mean, I do. What if this book she’s about to read confirms all her fears that I’m delusional and I’m going to be broke all my life?

What if it doesn’t matter what she thinks? What if it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of my silly little book? What if it doesn’t matter if no one ever buys a book from me ever again, after reading this one, because just having done the thing is brave enough for me? What if that’s just a cop-out? What if I’m diminishing myself so that I can feel comfortable in obscurity, in wasted potential?

What if my narrative about myself is a fallacy in and of itself?

I expected to feel elated that I have a book of poetry published.

I feel sick to my stomach.

Is this what everyone goes through? Every artist of every kind, when they shout something into the void, is this how they feel? Why am I even asking that? Does how someone else feels about their own life impact mine at all?

I’ve got to find a way to get over this.

Maybe there is no way over.

Go through.