This week, I became a bestselling author. My book hit the #2 spot on the Amazon bestseller list for its genre, and somewhere around the 230th spot for all Kindle books, period.
And no one knows that I wrote it.
Right now it’s dropped down to the #4 spot, with nearly a hundred reviews (mostly positive-yay!). I don’t even want to look at the books with my own name on them, somewhere in the three millionth area of that same listing. Reviewed by a few kind women in my mom’s Jazzercize class and maybe a stranger or two. Possibly my mom. Who’s to say?
On one hand, I feel really proud of myself. I am capable of writing a bestseller. On the other hand, when I told my mom, she hesitated, and her pause was loaded with meaning. She doesn’t understand how I can be successful and not successful at the same time.
I don’t really know how I feel about it, honestly. When I saw that number, I was excited. I mean, that’s job security. I can still get my pennies per word to keep us afloat. On the other hand, all I could think about was seeing those rankings next to my own name, feeling the elation of reaching a lifelong dream. But not like this. Not like Debbie Reynolds standing behind the curtain, singing into a secret microphone.
In the past year I’ve written 18 books. Eighteen books. I’m working on #19 right now. All in the shadows. My ability to produce quality content within days, to churn out human emotions like a factory wheel has led me to this moment.
Mixed feelings abound. Still, that won’t stop me from scanning through the reviews of my alter-ego, and when they praise her writing, I know they’re really praising me.
And for now, that will have to be enough. Someday they’ll know my name.