For me, the most thrilling moment of being an author isn’t when the book comes out, or doing media, or anything like that. It’s the time—just about an hour ago—when your first copy comes in the mail and sits in your lap. Nobody’s reviewing it or criticizing it or asking questions. It’s just you—after three years of work—feeling some pride in an accomplishment.
What I’m actually thinking most about, today, are my parents, Joan and Stan Pearlman, who listened as I sat on their bed and read every high school newspaper story aloud; who saved and saved and saved so my brother and I could attend college; who gave me their car for summers when I interned in Urbana, Ill. and Nashville; who always, always, always, always supported my goal of becoming a writer. I’ve really had the chance to live my dream—and it’s entirely because I had parents who supported my efforts, and trusted me not to screw up.
That’s all I wanted to say. Too emotional.
