My index finger landed on the cold, metallic surface, warm to my touch. My husband’s finger followed, and rested atop mine, giving me the added push. The usually light spring felt exceptionally heavy.
The button in view registers our combined force. He lifted his finger, mine, still wobbling on the trackpad, bearing the weight of my uncertainty. Do I really want to do this?
I slid the cursor away while still applying pressure. Not ready, not yet. My hand left the surface. Command aborted.
Alright, deep breaths in. In, and exhale slowly.
Again.
Applying pressure, again, with the same finger, I held it there for almost a minute before releasing the pressure in me through a scream, freeing my taut finger off its hefty duty, shaking out the tension in it.
A spinner appeared in response to its deed. There, I submitted my first book to Amazon for approval.
I had not considered the possibility of withdrawing or canceling the request. Neither did I think that things on the Internet are not as “final” as being on the shelves in a brick-and-mortar store. I can still pull back any time. Not that I wanted to, but I have that option. It’s not a dead-end for me. And because I had not given myself any escape route, I was terrified by what I thought I had done—expose myself.
I was like a negative; the slightest exposure to light would be sufficient to incinerate me. I was like a squirrel, any chance of being spotted might leave me frozen.
But I had a bigger dream: to share a precious part of myself with the world, and hopefully call out to others who experience “squirrel-like” moments like me. My dream is worth the risk—the perceived risk of death by exposure. I can trust that the right ones will receive me, for I have put out my smoke signal. And the next step is to fan it so that more can come to notice it.