When my book was first published in Sweden and I recieved my first printed copy, I carried it with me for days wherever I went. Not as in, if I went away, I brought it with me (although of course I did). More as in, if I went into the kitchen, it followed. If I was reading in bed, it was right there next to me, on the pillow. When I went out on the balcony to smoke, it, too, got some fresh air.

It was a sort of wonder, that something that had previously existed only in my head had now taken physical shape. I guess it’s the equivalent to having imaginary friends when you were little that other people could suddenly see.

And it’s the same with my copy of it in english. In english! I keep thinking: Amy could have read this. It’s such a thing of beauty, too. Not the content, of course, my modesty forbids me to comment on it, but the physical copy. The charmingly delightful cover; the colours, the woman reading, the text: There’s always a person for every book. And a book for every person. And inside; all those yellow dots on a red background, the stacks of books.

The scent of it.

It reminds me about other wondrous things in life. Such as for example: visiting UK bookshops for The Independent Booksellers Week and talking about books (I’m leaving on Wednesday and will for example read for hours in a bookshop window, give book recommendations, talk about my book, sign copies of it for Goldsboro Books and in general spend as much time as possible in as many bookshops as possible). Or the fact that Fannie Flagg has read my book. And liked it. She calls it “an absolutely delightful, charming book that celebrates the healing power of friendship and love often found in small towns” and if I have time later today I’ll tell you the story about how not  to write a short thank you note to Fannie Flagg.