Since nobody’s done a write-up about my new novel, I figured I’d make up an interview. I’ll call the interviewer Oprah.

Oprah: “What’s the title?”

Me: “Raw Nerves.”

Oprah: “What’s it about?”

“A neurotic psychotherapist.”

“So it’s autobiographical?”

Me, chewing little wads of toilet paper: “No.”

“But it says at the end of your column that you were a psychotherapist.”

“I was, but the character, Dr. Sophie Green, is a hypochondriac.” I removed the toilet paper so I could take my temperature  . . .  again.

Oprah: “How is she any different from you?”

Me: “She cures people.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I tried a lot.”

Since my temperature was normal, I opened a new thermometer, just to make sure that fourth thermometer was working right.

“How are the reviews?”

“I’ll read one. ‘It’s the best book I’ve ever read. You’re the best writer in the world! Bob Daly.’”

“Isn’t that your husband?”

Me, looking at the signature: “It says Daly, not Perel.”

“We don’t lie in newspapers. I repeat; isn’t that your husband?”

“Sort of.”

Oprah: “What’s the plot?”

“Well, one of Sophie’s patients wants her dead. She deals with anxiety by stuffing herself.”

“What?”

I gulped down the carrot cake so she could understand my answer.

“How many have you sold?”

“Um  . . .  I’ve given it to 14 friends as gifts. Does that count?”

She sighed, put down her notepad and put her head in her hands. “Here,” I said, grabbing a book. “Now it’s 15.”

She looked at the book. “It says ‘Dr. Green is a worrier.’ I can relate to that.”

I inched my chair closer. “I know exactly how you feel.” I pointed to our stove. “Every hour when I sniff each burner, I smell gas leaking.” I sniffed the air. “Oh no! I smell it from here. Can’t you?”

She inched her chair away. “No.”

“Then you mean stuff like car crashes, diseases and those creepy little bugs that are on your potato one minute and in a flash – they’re gone!”

She moved her chair further away. “Back to your novel. Is it in bookstores?” I nodded. She continued, “Will you have signings?”

“Sure. At my neighbor’s yard sale. I bought a pen!”

“I mean at bookstores.”

“Oh, lots.”

“No offense,” she said. “But things you say are  . . .  odd. Are you having signings at places that actually sell books?”

“Yes, but I’m incredibly nervous about public appearances. I figured I could sit at my book table and face the other way so I don’t have to see anybody.” She shook her head, I think in a disapproving way. “Don’t worry,” I said, touching her hand which she quickly pulled away. “I’ll leave a pen out and everybody can sign my name.”

She picked up her note pad and said, “Are you expecting many people at your signings?”

I counted with my fingers. “Bob is coming and the bookstore people will be there – ” She interrupted me and stood up. “That’s all I need,” she said. I grabbed her skirt. “Well, you could come too.”

And so, at the age of 53, I begin my journey with my first novel. It took me 14 years to get it published. For me, it’s a dream come true. I hope, if you read it, you’ll think it was worth the wait.