I am excited to say that today, more than ever, my book being published seems real. Yesterday, I received the cover art. It is absolutely gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous. And it is an actual cover, not something photoshopped. The artist, the seriously talented Elaina Lee, had a model and she painted it from the model. I'm sure I sound as green as they come, but clearly I DID NOT KNOW that is how it was done. This was no cover created from your nephew's computer, honey. What she did is mystical and magical and perfectly, perfectly suited to the mood and tone of my book, SPELLBOUND. She captured the right atmosphere and elements and I could not be more thrilled with it.
Having an actual cover means there is an actual book. I feel validated. As we get closer to the release date, I begin to feel more like a real writer. Of course, the second I wrote those words, the writer in me began screaming and stamping her foot.
"What do you mean 'a real writer? What the hell do you think you are now?"
I'll admit, being off work (ok, unemployed, I just hate that word. *off-work* sounds more like it was my decision, at least) makes me feel like I am a writer. Like, traipsing around in flip-flops midday is how I would choose it, given the choice. But, somehow, even though I have a book coming out, I still feel a bit off answering, "I'm a writer." to questions of, "So, what do you do?" I wonder, how many books do you have to write before that answer doesn't sound like a lie?