I am sitting at my desk right now, a thick stack of paper on my lap. I'm rereading my book, beginning to end. Again. Page by page, chapter by chapter, I've read this book more than a dozen times. A million times, it seems. I can practically recite the entire thing. The words have become so familiar I can hardly see them; the sentences contemplated so often that their meaning fades in a moment, vaporous and fast. (I don't even want to know how my poor editor feels...)
But now the book has been written and edited and rewritten and copy edited and put into its first round of galleys. Not yet bound. But close. It's exciting and totally strange to see the typeface, the copyright, the dedication already inset. I saw the cover for the first time last week. It's a painting done by a talented artist. I can really only stare at it in disbelief.
The best part, though, is its new title: Season To Taste: How I Lost My Sense of Smell and Found My Way. Also, underneath it on the jacket cover: my name. My name on a book. A real live book. Who woulda thought?