I sold five books this week.

That’s five more books than than the zero I sold in last three months.

And I don’t think it was family or friends who made the purchases, but I could be wrong.

I sold five books this week.

That’s not something to rave about.

Yet, looky, looky, here we are, and here I am, doing just that.

I sold five books this week.

The first sales I’ve made in months.

And though such low numbers are arguably an embarrassing showing, I ain’t being the least bit sheepish about it.

I sold five books this week.

That’s five people I just may

comfort

or make laugh

or inspire

or make feel supported.

I sold five books this week.

That’s five houses where my words will be heard by the ears of the undeniably unique humans inside of it.

I’ve sold five books this week.

That’s five people who might feel a little less alone or messy after diving in with me into my imperfect world.

I’ve sold five books this week.

That’s five endtables or bookshelves that I might grace.

I’ve sold five books this week.

And grace, given to ourselves and to others, is what each one of my books encourages.

I’ve sold five books this week.

Pitiful.

Just pitiful.

Some might say.

Me?

What do I say?

That’s pretty damn cool.