As I walked down the sidewalk, my elderly parents following close behind, I felt my knees shaking. Each step in the two-inch patent Mary Janes made me wish I had opted for flats instead. As we neared the bar, faces slowly became recognizable and I greeted friends arriving for the event. In half an hour, my first novel would be launched.
I returned the smiles and did the introductions. My parents had never met some of my friends before and even though I was no longer a teenager, the anxiety of mixing parents and friends never seems to go away.
More friends appeared, some with flowers, most with hugs and wishes of congratulations, and I wondered if my knees would simply give out and render me useless for the rest of the evening. Perhaps I could go back home and crawl under my covers. The book could launch itself, right?
We all entered the venue and headed to the back room where the launch would be held. More friends were seated, having arrived earlier. More introductions and finally the folks were settled into a comfortable booth and I could mingle and greet.
Books suddenly appeared in front of me, with requests to sign – the familiar picture on the front painted by my artist cousin. A pen borrowed from my father’s pocket with my shaking fingers, I somehow managed to scribble words on the pages. I hoped the phrases would make sense, but more so, be legible.
I watched as the room filled up with faces from elementary, high school and university, colleagues from work and neighbours, who found themselves sitting together to make conversation until the program began.
Tightrope’s publisher Jim Nason, opened the ceremony, followed by publicist Heather Wood who introduced the first novelist. I heard his voice as he read an excerpt from his novel, but the words would not form cohesive sentences in my mind. Because then it was my turn and I begged my k
nees to carry me up the stairs.
Once I was standing alone on the stage, the bright lights in my eyes, I looked down at the piece of paper that held my introduction and grounded myself in the words. My breath slowed and I began.
The opening remarks drew some reaction from the crowd, and then I opened the book to the marked passage and began reading my own words. I let each word escape my mouth as they rose into the air and floated to the audience, landing with a soft impact.
As I read the last sentence and closed the book, there was a slight pause, and then the applause began. The words were raw, candid, real. I hoped they would resonate.
My loyal legs carried me back to my seat without incident and I whispered my gratitude. Was I shaking? Did I look nervous? I asked my parents. They shook their heads. I did well. They loved the passage I chose.
The evening passed with much less anxiety as I found my handwriting skills had 
returned and I was able to craft personal messages in the books. Once the evening ended with a few friends finishing drinks and saying goodbyes, I allowed myself to realize the truth of what had just happened. I had just launched my first novel.