The first chapter of my YA paranormal fantasy "City of Secrets" has been up on JukePop Serials for four days now, which means I can now officially call myself an author. Yay! (Serial publishing is a type of self-publishing in which one chapter at a time is released.) I was really excited about this whole being a published author thing. Sure, it's not as glamorous as being published by the big five or even self-publishing on Amazon, but hey, there's something about being able to say "author" instead of just "writer". Also, when people ask what I do, and I say "I'm a writer" and they inevitably follow up with, "What have you written?" I'll be able to hand them my business card (yep, I have business cards now, and a pretty purple business card holder--the whole purpose behind the business cards) and show them where they can find what I've written. Sure, someone will probably say something along the lines of, "Oh, so you're not a real writer," but whatever.
So, I've been an author for four days and well . . . nothing has happened. Well, sure, my story is up, but nothing else has happened. I thought maybe I might grow an inch taller, or my hair or eyes would change color, or I'd get a phone call from the Super-Secret-Society-of-Super-Cool-Authors offering me my membership. But it hasn't happened. A rainbow has not appeared above my apartment. I don't have magic powers. All that's happened is I now have the ability to hit the refresh button on JukePop eight hundred times a day (yeah, I am) to see if anyone new has read my story.
This reminds me of when I was eighteen and got my eyebrow pierced. All the cool kids were getting things pierced (I even knew a couple people who were getting their things pierced, but I wasn't ready to be that cool). I was really excited. I was positive I was about to join the Super-Secret-Society-of-We're-Better-Than-You-Because-We-Have-Body-Piercings-Club. So, it was great. I got my eyebrow pierced and it looked really good and I got tons of compliments. But other than having to go through the extra trouble of cleaning it every day . . . Nothing Happened. No phone call from the Super-Secret-Society-of-We're-Better-Than-You-Because-We-Have-Body-Piercings-Club about my membership. Could it be that there was no club? Sure, it was the late nineties and everyone was starting to pierce things other than their ears, so maybe it just wasn't a big deal anymore. Maybe I imagined this club.
Now, thinking back to many years ago (not going to say how many), there was another secret club I wanted to join. This was a club I KNEW existed. I just knew it. This would be the club for people who HAVE HAD SEX. Now, before I joined the PEOPLE WHO HAVE HAD SEX club, I definitely felt like I was on the outside. All my friends were acting all secretive and whispery and giggly and calling me prude. Guys I had crushes on were calling me prude. At the time there was nothing more humiliating, though in retrospect--ASSHOLES! There was definitely a secret society--there was something going on I didn't know about (in retrospect--duh--sex).
Now, even though I was really eager to join this club, I wasn't just going to rush to get my membership just for the sake of getting my membership. So, by the time I finally did it, it was like, "Yes, yes, yes!" (Yes, men, we women think that too.) I knew something amazing was going to happen. Well, you know, something amazing other than the uh, Event, that was going to get me into the club. Now, first, let me just say, it was definitely worth the picky process of waiting and choosing just who would help me get into this club. Except . . . again, other than the awesomeness of The Event . . . NOTHING HAPPENED. Seriously. Sure, I jumped up and down with my girlfriends (not the night of The Event, the next day. That would've been really weird). Again, I didn't get any taller, my hair and eyes didn't change color. Although, my belly button did get pierced the next day, but that was because I went out with my friend and pierced it (I guess it was a weekend for getting pierced).
Worst of all, I did not get the phone call from The-Super-Secret-Sexy-Society-of-Super-Sexy-Awesome-People-Who-Are-Having-Sex. Which I later realized was okay, because I got an even more important phone call. That would be the phone call from the guy involved in The Event. And then I of course later realized that he and I had our own Super-Secret-Sexy-Society-Whatever-Whatever and that it was way better than one that would involve lots of people I didn't know. Not my thing.
Years later I got a tattoo and though you would think I would've learned by then . . . I hadn't learned. I waited for my hair to change color . . . to grow taller . . . for magic rainbows to appear . . . for the phone call from the Super-Secret-We're-Super-Cool-We-Love-Pain-Or-Art-or-Symbolism-or-Endorphins-Or-We're-Not-Really-Sure-Why-We're-Getting-All-These-Tattoos-Tattoo-Club . . . nope. Nothing happened.
So, either there are no secret societies anywhere, or there is a GIANT CONSPIRACY in which Becky Munyon is not allowed to join said secret societies.
Either way, it's cool because I'm a writer AND an author and my story is going up for all to see and that's exciting enough. If you haven't read chapter one yet, check it out. New chapters will be posted every Tuesday.