Sorry, I’m late. I seem to be snowed under, but with what I’m not sure.

The truth is I’ve been feeling a little anxious.

Did I mention I’ve been writing a book, that has a title and a cover and everything?

No? It must have slipped your mind.

Well, the book is about to go out to the very kind people who are my advance readers.

You know on the back of a book where it has amazing writers saying lovely things – ‘the best book ever!’  ‘You should read this, it’s fab!’ Those quotes often come from advance readers who get to read the book before publication and hopefully say nice things about it.

I’m aiming for ‘This book has pages,’ – still a revelation to me.  Or, ‘This woman really knows how to use a comma.’ Which, to be fair, is not a claim I can own, as you know, my use of, grammar can be a bit, hit, and, miss. And anyway, the lovely copyeditor did all of that – thank you, Liz.

The thing is that people are reading my book right now. Cool people, amazing writers whose books I have cherished. Writers that I respect. And that is not cool.

It’s not that I don’t think the writing is good – it’s bloody brilliant.  It’s not that I think the stories won’t speak to people. I think you will love them, – they’re funny and sad and, at times, a little bit Chopsy.

It’s not sending my baby out into the world and worrying that people won’t like it, or will think it’s ugly or even say mean things. If you don’t like my work, that sounds like a you problem. Simply don’t read it.

So why am I so anxious?

I love chatting to you on the blog. I mean I’ve discussed my boobs and my moods, and the shite my kids keep in my attic with you. I feel we can share, we could chat for days.

The wise and wonderful writer Vik Bennett, who is currently reading my book, summed it up perfectly.

The blog, she says, is me inviting you in for a quick cuppa, sitting in my garden, and then kicking you out when I’m done. The book is me inviting you in, and you suddenly poking around in all my drawers, having a nosey in the bathroom before I’ve had a chance to clean and generally wandering around upstairs. (Isn’t it weird that it’s fine to invite people in for a coffee and have them judge your bookshelves and choice of roses, but it’s definitely not ok if they go upstairs?)

And that’s it exactly.

I don’t know if I’m ready for people to see my dusty skirting boards, or empty loo-roll insides, endlessly sat on the shelf, waiting to be recycled.

In the book, I made a choice to write about the things I wrote about; I stand by that.  I’m coming to terms with the concept that the book has pages and a cover and all that jazz.

I guess now I need to get used to the idea that someone is gonna read it too.

You can pre-order here CHOPSY