The book is out and so am I. I’ve been asked how I feel about the whole process and haven’t had a cohesive answer—likely because I’m in the middle of an anxiety attack. Teaching the Cat to Sit isn’t just a book; it’s also a large portion of my life, forty-seven years on the earth exposed in all the gory glory that entails. In general, I think writers are unstable, neurotic, and insecure, often while simultaneously managing to be brilliant and happy and prolific. Go figure. So here are my thoughts about my book and me coming out, in random order, of course.
I should have waited until my parents died to write this book, but they are in such good health.
My friends, old classmates, and even my boss have read this book. Are they looking at me funny? OMG. They are, aren’t they?
Did I take my Prozac this morning?
I feel guilty that my friends are buying my book. It costs $25. A steak and a great Cabernet might have been the better choice. You can’t eat a book.
No one will show up to my book signings.
Everyone will show up, and I will throw up in public on my shoes.
I should get back into therapy.
If this book does well, it will kill my mother.
If no one reads it, I’ll kill myself.
What rank is my book on Amazon?
An old friend is reading the book and I haven’t heard from her about it: a) She must be mad at me. b) She hated it and wants to spare my feelings. Or, c) She has a life.
I should take up yoga or meditate.
Will I ever look as put together and sane as my author photo?
They should serve tequila at all book signings.
And finally: Why haven’t Oprah and Ellen responded to any of my letters?