It begins like this: a box arrives in the mail and is carefully opened. Of course I know what’s in the box isn’t Gwyneth Paltrow’s pretty head; I’ve been expecting its arrival (the box, not her head), but still, there’s a slight tremble in the fingers and a touch of dryness in the mouth
There is something quite startling to see the finished product. This isn’t a galley proof, but the book itself, the one that will end up in the hands of readers. (Well, not these exact copies, but still.) This isn’t an anthology with one of my stories tucked within; this is a collection of my work. I’m terrified to look too closely within the pages for fear of finding something I’d change or edit. I’m terrified people will hate it. I’m terrified no one will read it.
But my part in the chorus is done. I know this. For better or worse, the words doesn’t belong to me anymore and the stories within must sing on their own.