I’m beginning to suspect my mailman is afraid of me. And, truth be told, he probably should be. I’ve been lying in wait next to my mailbox for the past week. No, I’m not waiting for my tax return (though it’s a good one considering I spent far more than I earned this year) or the little white wicker table I ordered on the Internet during a bout of insomnia (the boys in brown should be delivering that any day now). What I am waiting for is the first glimpse of my latest book cover.

Most writers rarely have input on their covers, so seeing it for the first time can be both exciting and nerve-wracking. We daydream about it, picturing the one perfect image that will intrigue potential readers.

My ideal vision for the new book? A beautiful winter scene marred by bloody footprints.

At least that’s what I see when I’m having a positive moment. When I’m not, well, I see Frosty the Snowman being choked by his own scarf.

Perhaps some of my apprehension stems from PTCD (Post Traumatic Cover Disorder) which involved a fire, my cover, the color pink and the absence of a Candid Camera crew.

Huh?

My first cover—the one I stalked my mailman over for days—happened to be in the back of his truck when it caught fire. When it resurfaced days later it was singed, streaked from extensive water damage, and much to my surprise…Valentine pink.

Which explains the PTCD. And the fire extinguisher I’ve installed on the back of the mailbox.

It’s been thirteen months since the inferno, but I still see the fear in my mailman’s eyes when he rounds the corner into my cul-de-sac. He’s seen me on the brink and it’s not pretty.

Let’s hope for his sake that my newest cover arrives unscathed, sans Frosty, and sporting one of Crayola’s darker colors.

Or I’ll be bringing new meaning to the term “going postal.”

~Laura
www.laurabradford.com