Do I have to wear a dress?

I have my first book signing this weekend. It’s just a small affair during an event back home, but I’m freaking out for no good reason.

What if I mess it up? What if no one comes? What if people do come but then I stutter when I talk? What if my penmanship is totally illegible? Do I have to shake everyone’s hands? What if I forget my name!? Do I have to wear a dress? I’m definitely wearing flip flops and no one can stop me.

Not to mention, my list of things left to get done before Saturday is continuously growing. Instead of finishing the laundry so I can pack up my family and head two hours east of here, though, I’m just going to sit at the computer with my coffee (which is getting cold) and watch the neighbor’s turkeys across the street. They look delicious. I have plenty of time to pack, and really the important things are ready to go – my box of books, bookmarks, and that new Sharpie I bought the other day are sitting the my office hanging out until it’s time to put them in the car tomorrow.

But even having those things prepared won’t stop the worry I have.

Seriously, what if no one comes? I suppose if that’s the case I can just walk around the bookstore and sniff the merchandise, because books smell like home. They smell like memories of my childhood. I adore how smells trigger feelings from the past. Sometimes a song can do it, but smells … there is just something about them that weaves their way into the brain and pulls at the edges of a thought, a memory, a moment in time. I smell my grandmother’s V.C. Andrews books on a regular basis and am instantly transported back to my bedroom when I was 14 (I think? maybe 13) and that moment when I read Flowers in the Attic for the first time, feet propped up on the edge of my bed, reading in the quiet and being interrupted only because dinner was ready.

But now it’s not just me chilling in my pink bedroom reading a book. Now … I’m the one who wrote a book. And I have to go buy eyeliner and look presentable. I need to figure out what clothes I’m going to wear and what I’m going to do with my hair.

This shit is hard.

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