The Day My Husband Became My Publicist

Okay, not really. But you'll see what I mean.

The day my first book was published, I had prepared myself for many emotions. Pride. Relief. A mild breakdown and mental health crisis. What I had not prepared for was my husband turning into a one man marketing department with absolutely no training and no hesitation.

I woke up that morning determined to be calm and dignified about it. This was a serious historical novel. Years of research. Careful structure. Emotional depth. I was going to sip my coffee thoughtfully and maybe refresh the sales page only every ten minutes instead of every two minutes. My husband had other plans, though.

By noon, he had informed the grocery store cashier, the UPS driver, our neighbor across the street, and a complete stranger at the gas station that his wife was officially a published author. I know this because he came home grinning with pride and recounted each interaction in great detail. Apparently the man at the gas station did not say anything at all other than, “How’s your day going?” That was all it took.

But it did not stop there. He attempted to rearrange the living room so that my author copies would be “strategically visible” in case anyone stopped by unexpectedly. We do not have unexpected visitors. Ever. I'm a bit of a recluse and tend to avoid answering the door anyway! He still stacked them on the coffee table in what he called a “casual” display. Sweetie. That isn't casual. AT ALL.

At one point he suggested we casually leave a copy on the kitchen counter when some of my closest friends came over, like books would naturally just end up in the most prominent spot in the house on their own. I mean, especially books written by the home owner, right?

But my favorite moment happened that evening.

We went out to dinner to celebrate, and when the server asked if we were celebrating anything special, I froze. I didn't want to answer, I hadn't even thought about that being a quesiton we would be asked. I am not naturally inclined to brag about myself. But, of course before I could answer, my husband leaned forward with the calm seriousness of a man reporting important global news like the birth of a new monarch and said, “Yes. My wife just published her first novel.” He said it like he was introducing a head of state at the White House. I'm pretty sure the neighboring table turned to look like they thought I might be JK Rowling or something. Yes, he said FIRST novel. Obviously I'm not going to be recognized, and less than 1% of all published authors ever achieve that kind of acclaim anyway.

I laughed. The waiter congratulated me. Dessert appeared gratis, which was just too much. I tried to insist that we pay for the slice of chocolate cake, but the server refused. And somewhere between the awkwardness and the joy, I realized something important. Writing is solitary. Submitting to publishers is vulnerable. But having someone in your corner who believes in you loudly and proudly, even when you are trying to be quiet about it all, is a gift.

He may not have a degree in marketing, but he has a PhD in loyalty and love. And if you ever see a man enthusiastically telling a stranger about a Viking saga or female pirate in the produce aisle, there is a very good chance that is my husband doing what he does best: bragging, yet again.