So.
Collected the author copies of my novel hot off the press on Friday. Author copies. Heh.

Boys acted putridly, running around and shouting and showing off and not letting me think.
Chucked the shits at boys.
They cried.
Went home.
Burst into tears.
Rang the mister.
Cried some more. Not a lot he could do given he’s half a world away and I’d miscalculated the time zone and woken him up.
Why didn’t I let my Dad read it even if it wasn’t finished? And not to mention my performance the night before was awful, I don’t know if I’ve ever been that nervous before, what was I thinking I’ve only been on stage six times since this time last year, my script is crap, my voice skipped, my legs shook.
Expensive phone call.

Just at the right moment, my mother-in-law came home, grabbed an author copy from my hand, then sat at the kitchen table and started to read. Every single word from the title page on.

And then when I said thank you to her, I started to cry again, but I didn’t have to explain why, and after she’d held me for a while she started reading again.

I started to find my feet on Friday night and didn’t feel half so nervous, and then met gorgeously lovely friend, drank riesling, talked and laughed and cried.

And maybe my performance wasn’t totally awful because here is our review.

And really, what more could a girl ask?