The First Time Someone Asked Me to Sign My Own Book

There are moments people imagine when they think about being an author. Glamorous launches. Clever interviews. Queues of readers waiting with books in their hands.

My first request for an autograph did not look like that.

It was my friend, standing in my kitchen, holding a fresh copy of Swipe Right, Keep Left that still smelled of new paper. They smiled and said, very simply

“Will you sign it for me”

For a second I thought they were joking. Then I realised they were completely serious. My stomach flipped. I felt awkward and flattered at the same time. It was not a big cinematic moment. No spotlight. No applause. Just me, my friend, and a biro that did not really work.

We stood there in that slightly strange silence that happens when something important is happening but nobody knows what to say. I took the book and opened it. Seeing my own name printed on the title page gave me a little jolt. It looked official, as if someone much more qualified should be holding that pen.

I had no idea what the rules were. Where do you sign What do you write Is there a correct author message I had seen signed books before, but I had never imagined what it feels like from this side. Everything about it felt too big and too small at the same time. Big because this is my friend choosing to mark this copy as special. Small because it is happening in my everyday life, between the kettle and the biscuit tin.

In the end I kept it simple. Their name. A short thank you. A tiny personal note that only we would understand. Nothing particularly clever or polished. Just honest. My handwriting looked a bit shaky, which felt about right.

My friend was pleased. They tucked the book back into their bag with care. For them it seemed natural, even casual. For me it landed somewhere deep and quiet. Not fireworks. More like a slow, warm glow that spread through my chest after they had gone.

It was not really fun, not in the loud, party sense. It was tender and uncomfortable and strangely serious. Signing that book made me realise that this story has left my head and my laptop. It now lives in other people’s hands and homes. People are choosing to keep a piece of it, and a piece of me, on their shelves.

Younger me would have stared at books in shops and wondered what kind of person gets to write one. Now I know. It is just a person who has lived some things, made some mistakes, tried to make sense of it all, and kept going long enough to put it into words.

So yes, I still feel awkward when someone asks me to sign a copy. I still overthink what to write. But underneath all of that is something very simple.

I am grateful. Quietly, deeply grateful that anyone would want my name in their book at all.