I had a feeling I knew what was in the box when the delivery man handed it over to me.
I carried it up the stairs.
Put it on the sofa.
And carefully ripped off the lid (for once in my life I actually followed the instructions on which side to open).
Look what I found inside...
I stared at them.
And I stared at them.
And I stared at them some more (I just couldn't take it in).
Then I picked one up.
And I touched the cover, running my finger over the gold lettering.
Then opened it.
And saw my words inside.
I went on Twitter and shared my excitement/astonishment/sense of unreality with the world.
And people wrote such lovely things.
Such, such, lovely things.
And re-tweeted my excitement and told more people.
And my Twitter account was going 'Ping, ping, ping!' as more and more people said congratulations and well done and it's so pretty and I can't wait to read it.
I wrote back to all of them, thanking them, feeling like I was living in a dream.
And then I wrote "I've wanted to be an author since I was EIGHT YEARS OLD. And now I am."
And then I burst into tears.
And then someone told me I should stack my books up in a big pile and take a photo.
So I did.
They're still there. Still stacked up in my living room.
I keep walking in, just to check.