I’ve never been overly fond of parties. I usually avoid them, particularly if I don’t already know most of the people who’ll be there. It’s the uncertainty that gets me. (I have the same issue with blueberries, but I’m saving that for my much anticipated four-part series on my relationship with fruit. And don’t even get me started on legumes.)
In a few hours it will be August. In a few weeks my first novel will be launched, and as the month ticks over, I’m getting that familiar heart-thumping, standing-on-the-threshold feeling.
Well, this is one party that I’m not going to miss. Inside are friends who deserve to be celebrated and new people that I’m desperately excited to meet. Thankfully, I’m not standing on this threshold alone. I’m here because of the people who’ve come over to my house, helped me pick out an outfit, refrained from comment while I put on eyeliner that makes me look like a tipsy raccoon, and then shoved me into the car.
I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I am most definitely showing up. I’ll even eat blueberries, provided they’re served in pie form.