Last Friday, Doug brought in the mail when he got home from work. There was a letter from my publisher.
As I picked it up, I looked at Doug and said sadly, “They’re taking my book out of print.”
He said, “You haven’t even opened it.”
I didn’t have to. I’d been waiting for this letter since I got my royalty statement in November. I’m guessing they wanted to wait through Advent to see if book sales picked up any with the beginning of a new church year. Apparently they didn’t.
I read the letter and cried.
But honestly, even though I feel sad, I mostly feel like this is really distant from my current life, like the woman who wrote that book is a different person from the woman who spends her days breastfeeding twins, changing diapers, patting bums, and trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of her older kids.
I suppose that is a mercy, though I feel sad that I am not mourning the death of this book more deeply. I feel it deserves that, at least. I wish I had the emotional energy to grieve this loss. I expect I will, eventually.
In the meantime, I will go feed another baby, change another diaper, pat another bum, and try not to fall apart.
