A box just arrived in the mail. A large box. It’s your author copies. Your publisher sent you twenty-five copies of your hardcover novel, which will be officially published next month. Your open the box with an excitement that is ten times greater than that of child unwrapping a Christmas present. You have worked for this. My God, have you worked for this. And here it is, resting in your hand, your book, the story that incubated in your imagination for years and years, the story that took ten thousand gallons of blood and sweat to tell. Now it’s been published. There it is.
You just sit there. You’re so overwhelmed you can’t even call your friends and tell them to come over. Your author copies. In a big box. Your box. Your victory. Your great triumph. With a trembling hand you leaf your novel, smelling the pages. If only you could bottle that fragrance.
People would be impressed.
“I love that perfume you’re wearing. What’s it called?”
“It’s called ‘My Author Copies’.”
“Do they sell it at Macy’s?”
“No, I created it myself.”
My Author Copies, the ultimate fragrance. To hell with Gucci. You wish you could dab some on every time you leave the house. Hell, you’d like to dab some on every time you use the toaster oven.
You laugh at the thought. You can’t stop laughing. A box came in the mail for you. A great big box.