My book came out three days ago, January 29. That morning, I was on NPR’s “On Point” with Meghna Chakrabarti. In the afternoon, my editor called to tell me that we were already going into our second printing. That night, my beloved local independent bookstore hosted my first book event. The house was packed with friends, former students and their parents, my kids’ bus driver from elementary school (with whom I used to exchange books in the mornings), neighbors (past and present), university colleagues, the woman who helped us furnish our new house, my hairdresser, my dentist, members of our church community, as well as many delightful strangers. It was great day and a wonderful night. I signed 100 books.
The next morning, racing home from a radio gig in the bitter cold, I slammed my finger in the car door. I went right into panic mode as I watched the blood pool into my nail bed. Luckily, my husband was at home and talked me down from the rafters, a job he’s very good at. Many icings later, I still can’t use my index finger on my dominant hand.
I have to laugh. In between worrying about how I’m going to sign books over the several days, I laugh. I mean, I can’t write. I can barely type this. But I have to write; there is no choice. I will have to find a way to work with the wound—which is exactly what Black is the Body is about, essentially.
So, amidst all of this dream-come-true kind of excitement, I am reminded, with each keystroke, how essential it is to take care of the things you need.
I hope to see you out there!
