Imagine that you were little. Little and insignificant. Smaller than a marble.

Imagine that your whole life was just a couple weeks long.

And all you knew how to do was eat.

Oh, there’s a cake. Yum. Crunch crunch. (only I suppose you don’t really crunch cake unless it’s been sitting out for a long time but those were the only eating sounds I could think of.)

Look, there’s a cookie. I think I’ll eat that too.

Oops. I died.

And that was your whole entire life. How much impact could you make on the world?

Ultimately, that is the life of a mosquito. Only of course it’s not cake and cookies they’re eating, it’s a meal of horse blood here, another meal of Emily blood there…

And then it dies, but it’s changed someone’s life forever.

Somehow that just about blows my mind.

That all the horror of my west nile was the fault of such an insignificant thing.

And all the wonderful loveliness of my book was, again, because of such an incredibly small creature. After all, without my west nile I would have had nothing to write a book about.

If you think your life is insignificant, remember the mosquito.

That is all I have to say.

Once upon a time there was a girl named Emily who sat down at her computer and tried to think of something to blog about. Normally when she was in such a dilemma she wrote randomness. But this was not a normal situation. This was her first blog post on the website of her first book. It somehow didn’t seem proper to write about things like, for instance, the ketchup packet she found in the dirt that morning.

By the way, I really did find a ketchup packet in the dirt this morning. It was quite strange. Why would  there be a full ketchup packet buried in my yard?

Anyway, instead of ketchup packets and other such randomness, what you readers probably want to know about is my book. Because, after all, I held my book for the first time this morning. And it was amazing.

After screaming and showing my sisters and listening to them scream I promptly ran down to my neighbors to show them. Literally ran. I don’t run much. But this was worth running for, even though I was very, very tired by the time I got to their house.

They were mostly gone anyway. Only two of their daughters, Cheyenne and Savannah, were home. But Savannah asked me for my autograph. “I got Emily Smucker’s first autograph!” she said, excitedly.

It felt amazing. Strange, but amazing.

So if you wonder what it feels like to get asked for your autograph (even if it is just your eight year old neighbor) or  to hold your book for the first time, the answer to both questions is the same. It feels amazing.

Well of course it feels amazing.

But it also sort of feels too good to be true.