Biting my nails while crossing my fingers

Lance is reading my book.

I had hoped to hold him off until the book was completely finished and edited and polished to the best I could make it be, but alas. I can hold him off no longer.

Why does it make me so nervous for him to read it?

It was at least 10 years ago when Lance first started telling me I should write a book. I always returned the comment with a look of bewildered incredulity. I imagine my facial expression would have been fairly similar if he would have said, "You should be a quantum physicist." (Physics is the class I was least capable of. That’s even before you add the “quantum” part.) Or, "You should be a surgeon." (I have issues with blood, guts, and cutting people open.) Or, "You should start a polka band." (I am musically challenged. Plus, I really dislike polka music.) Why in the world he thought I was capable of writing a book was beyond me.

It was only a year and a half ago that I first decided I wanted to write a book, and that it was a tiny bit possible that I might be able to do it.

He believed in me WAY before I believed in myself.

The only part of my book that Lance has read is my two-page prologue. Yet, he has supported me in so many ways--- with me taking classes, going to conferences, meeting with my writing group, encouraging me to take time to write, giving me books on writing as Christmas presents, being a sounding board as I talk through plot, and patiently listening as I talk about things I learned, or about an author I met, or the things in books I've read that the author did really well or didn't do so well. He hasn't even once complained about hearing the name "Brandon Sanderson" too much.

He has just blindly supported me, assuming the whole while that I'm a brilliant author.

I guess I just don't want to prove him wrong.