I published a book. I’m immortal, like Ozymandias. ^[i] I’ll exist after the last tree has fallen and the last river has turned to dust.

Or not. I have seller’s remorse. The temptation to undo what’s been done is enormous: that this mirrors bulimia, the theme of the book, is one of those strange coincidences life throws at you. A reminder to myself that what’s done can’t be undone.

It’s not that I’m not excited. I’m thrilled there’s a book with my name on it. I’m also amazed I got it done. Editing and formatting were more work than I anticipated. But I made it, and under my self-imposed deadline, mostly by letting go of my need for perfection. Unfortunately, since publishing, the “not worthy” gremlins have been busy.

My inside voice is convinced it isn’t a “real” book. It’s a compilation of previously published essays and therefore doesn’t count. I’m still not a “real” author.

The “not a real book” evaluation excludes other compilation and anthology books in existence, of course. Only mine is not a book proper. The gremlins also ignore that I wrote the essays contained therein.

It also wasn’t my idea, another tick in the “not real” column. I have an unfinished novel and autobiography I can claim once they’re done (my inside voice thinks that unlikely): those ideas were mine. This one, however, should be credited elsewhere. ^[ii]

Lastly, I self-published. If my book was “real,” agents and publishing houses would be blasting “In Your Eyes” from my driveway while their henchmen delivered million-dollar contracts in a desperate, to-the-death competition for my work. ^[iii]

I considered sending queries out to agents, but the rejection wasn’t something I wanted to risk. The query process is also stressfully complex: learning to levitate would be easier. Self-publishing was a comparative breeze. And God knows I love step-by-step checklists.

And so we have for you, “From Famine to Feast: my thoughts about my eating disorder,” a collection of the twelve most popular essays from the blog. I added an introduction, some back matter, and a rather adorable picture of me as a child to make it feel fresh. I also got to edit previous works, criticizing them with enthusiasm.

Regardless, I apologize for any shortcomings or perfection-lacks. Blame the editor.

The “not a book” is available on Kindle and as a paperback.

I’d appreciate a kind review if you feel inclined.

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[i] “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.” From Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley (poem, 1818). It’s a favourite piece of mine. I wrote an atrocious essay about it in grade twelve.
[ii] It was my psychiatrist’s idea. It felt like a find-value-in-living project. I can get depressed and dramatic sometimes, and not in a good, Auntie Mame way. I think this was a way to channel the negative energy.
[iii] I have a robust fantasy life. I’ve never watched “Say Anything.” (film, 1989) I feel like a generational traitor. I am, however, familiar with the boom-box-in-,the-driveway scene

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