When I was a kid, I used to have pretty handwriting. Really, I did. Even teachers would comment on it. It was something that I was proud of; after all, I was a professional colorer--that's how serious I was. Eventually, I would go on to repeat a phrase that I picked up from, oh, I don't know, somewhere and I'd sign my name saying, "Keep it, it'll be worth millions one day." I had to be a tween, and I'm sure I didn't actually believe it when I said it.
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Perhaps that is why I broke out into a cold sweat when my friend, Nadia Salem, asked me to autograph her book. (She preordered from Barnes & Noble and it arrived several days early.) It literally took me about five minutes to stop sweating and giggling nervously to settle down and figure out what I wanted to write. The words had to be exact. The signature had to be perfect.
OMG, I'm a published author. Settle down in the role, I said to myself.
![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/7d71ea_90e9fae7edc84836905162cefd64da2f~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_117,h_146,al_c,q_85,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,blur_2,enc_auto/7d71ea_90e9fae7edc84836905162cefd64da2f~mv2.png)
And I did. Another friend, Dawn Osborne, rushed out to that same Barnes & Noble and bought a copy. She brought it to work for me to sign. And that time, it only took three minutes of nervous giggles and a tad bit of cold sweating.
OMG, I'm a published author. I really am. Breathe, I told myself.
With each signing, I'm sure it'll get a little better. Right?