21 October 1996
There are copies. Real copies. I keep writing the sentence because it keeps refusing to become ordinary. My story is in a small anthology from Northward Press, and tonight we stood in a hot upstairs room above a bookshop while people held the book open and said my name with the title beside it.
The wine was harsh and magnificent. The tablecloth had a burn mark. The publisher wore a brown suit and looked as though he had survived several wars against distributors. I loved him for every minute of it. He said, "This is the beginning," and I believed him because belief was suddenly the easiest thing in the world.
Caroline came from the magazine and was gracious in a way that made me want to be gracious back, so I was. For one evening I could afford generosity. I had a book in the room. Not a promise, not a submission, not a rumour of interest. A book.
I signed three copies badly. My hand shook on the first one. By the third, I had invented a signature that looked like it belonged to a writer who knew exactly what she was doing.
Tomorrow the ordinary humiliations can resume. Tonight I am published. Tonight the air has teeth.