The Joy of the First Read

Paul McCartney was my first real crush (besides little Kenny from down the street, with his shock of red hair and a face full of freckles, who, in first grade, took me to the bunny hop). At the tender age of 11, that changed. It was 1964, and I'd watched the Beatles enough to fall madly in love with Paul McCartney. I started carving out time every day to write down my thoughts and dreams starring Paul and me. I wrote in a red faux-leather-covered business diary my father had handed down, using teeny-tiny letters so I could fit in all I wanted to say in the ledger’s meager half-page daily allotment. As the days went by, it became more and more of a challenge, as one exciting fantasy led to another, and my stories would go on and on. I was crazy about Paul and loved creating a world where he and I shared a special closeness. Remember, I was 11, so no sex. Pure adoration. Pure innocence. All my dreams came alive through my written words. Writing had opened up a whole new world to me, one that could take me anywhere I wanted and let me live any life I wanted, and all I needed to do was let my imagination take over.

Fast forward to the present, skipping over years of practicing law, during which my writing was predominantly legal in nature. Admittedly, I found satisfaction in choosing the right words and phrasing to strengthen my client's position and ultimately craft a winning argument for my firm, but my desire to write creatively never left me. After years of focusing on my career, I started my first novel, "A Different Sky." The storyline held some truths, but the overwhelming substance was pure fiction.

Loving the experience of writing, I soon traded my legal pad for a personal laptop and hit the keyboard running. My words flooded out like water over a breached dam. The freedom I felt was unparalleled. I was a bird soaring across a cloudless sky.

Writing took over my soul. Hours would pass, and I'd sit and write. No outlines, no drafts. Just write whatever came to me. I didn't care whether the words would be final choices or tossed in the trash. It was more important not to lose a single thought just because I was in a foul mood or in a rush, only to realize later that I had discarded a gem. Words were like precious finds. They had to be protected. Once discarded, they could never regain their original beauty. That lesson was critical to me and couldn’t be taught or fully appreciated until mistakes had been made and regrets had been suffered. The life of my novel crept into my daily activities, and I'd find myself seeing the world through my characters' eyes. Life took on another facet, and I embraced it.

As if in a "bubble," I never thought about what would happen after I finished the book. Amazing as it sounds, I focused only on writing it. The very idea of writing an entire book felt so overwhelming that I couldn’t think beyond it. I couldn’t consider what would come next. Writing it and making the excruciating decision of when to call it “finished” were difficult enough, but I had no idea what awaited me. I knew nothing about self-publishing or promotion, or the pain, frustration, and fatigue that came with them. I spent the next year learning about the world of fiction writing and navigating its myriad of intricate processes and pitfalls. Needless to say, it wasn't a happy, carefree time in the life of a wannabe writer, but I soldiered on.

Finally, the moment had come to click the “publish” button. I danced around like a child on Christmas morning as I stood perched, ready to click. And then I did it. I clicked. Days later, the physical book was in my hands. That made it all real. It looked like a book, felt like a book, and smelled like a book, and my name was on the cover. It was mine. I wrote it. It was surreal.

My book had gone “live” on Amazon. Ready to be purchased. To be read. To be reviewed. To be judged. I was officially “out there,” vulnerable to whatever people wanted to say, good and bad. On the first day, Amazon showed some activity on my book page, and my worries skyrocketed. What would readers say? Would my writing be received favorably? Would it be criticized? I was frozen until the first reviews came in, and thankfully, they were favorable. I checked and rechecked Amazon throughout the day for the reported data (sales, pages, ratings) and reviews. I hung on to every word as if it were sacred. The bulk of the comments were positive, and I thought my heart would burst, but when I read the not-so-nice words, they were crushing. Over time, I realized a writer can’t avoid the bad and the ugly that inevitably come with living life, and the writing world was certainly no exception.

When I read my first review, I was speechless. Awestruck. I couldn’t believe this person was commenting on my novel. My story. My characters and the world I created. The review was not from a family member, a friend, or a paid promotion. It was from a stranger, someone who didn’t know me, had no feelings about me, good or bad, that could sway his or her opinion. Didn’t owe me a thing. They actually liked it. The review was five-star, supportive, and motivating. I was thrilled. Beyond thrilled. I was floating on air.

It felt like a dream I wasn’t waking up from. My book was listed on the same page as celebrated authors with well-known, well-respected names in the literary community. While I was in a different orbit, I was flying.
I did it. I wrote a book.

Randie K. Berman lives with her husband in an unspoiled area of New Jersey. She was a practicing attorney for many years until her passion for writing took over, and she traded her legal briefcase for a personal laptop and a life of storytelling. She now spends her days with her family, friends, and books — three wonderful sources of peace and contentment.

Links: 

• A Different Sky –  https://a.co/d/aq4FbuL
• 207 West End Avenue – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FJZMX92J
• Website –  https://randiekberman.com