It’s been about a month since the launch of my book, The Singapore I Recognise: Essays on home, community and hope. It’s been about two months since it was first introduced to the world via Ethos Books’s One-Book Bookshop pop-up.

I’m still trying to process my messy feelings about this. Sometimes it feels as if it hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Sometimes it feels like ancient history.

Having spent most of my career working with blogs, newsletters and online print publications, I’m used to a much quicker turnaround than book publishing. Articles get written up and sent off—sometimes within days, if not the same day—and while there might be some back-and-forth with edits, I’d usually already have moved on to working on something else (or at least pitching ideas for new work). Contrary to what some TV shows might suggest, freelance journalism pays nowhere near enough for a journalist or writer to work on just one thing at a time. Once something’s out of the door, it’s time to look for the next source of income. That’s more or less how things have operated for me over the past decade. (Now that I’m clocking full-time hours for Mekong Review, life has become blessedly calmer.)

This means I don’t have much experience dwelling on a single piece of work once I’m done writing it. It’s not right to say that the news articles, features and commentaries that I usually write have a limited shelf life—I often link people to them months or even years later if we’re discussing something related—but the news and social media cycle moves quickly. It’s a novelty to have done something as long-lasting and (hopefully) evergreen as a book.

The week before The Singapore I Recognise was revealed at the One-Book Bookshop, I would pop awake really early in the morning, far too early for it to be part of my regular circadian rhythm. I’d feel a little jittery and recognise it as nerves, the fluttery anticipation of what people (and the government) would say once they’ve read what I’ve written. I looked forward to the milestones: the preview night with members of Singapore’s #bookstagram community, the opening of the One-Book Bookshop, the official launch.

But once the first flush of excitement was over, things have moved on fairly quickly. Maybe too quickly?

People have said, “How do you feel now that the book is out?”, “You must feel so proud!”, or “This must be so exciting for you!”

To which I’ve said, “It’s really cool!”, “Yes, I’m really glad!”, and “Yay!”

But the reality is that I don’t really feel that much anymore. My work (writing/editing) on the book was done months ago—in that time I’ve produced multiple issues of Mekong Review, written thousands and thousands of words in newsletters, given interviews and volunteered at events. A large chunk of my brain has marked the book as “BEEN THERE, DONE THAT” and progressed to looking for new things to do with myself. I kind of wish I could dwell on the accomplishment a little longer, instead of diving straight back into the Imposter Syndrome and low-key anxiety of not doing enough, but I guess that’s something that needs to be worked on over a longer term.

These days, my book doesn’t really feel real except in the moments where I read a review, or someone tells me about how they felt reading it. It makes sense: communication requires both source and receiver. I can write a book, but the raison d’être of the book isn’t fulfilled until someone reads it. I am constantly curious about people’s reactions: I want to know what resonated with them, what didn’t, and why. I want to know how they feel after they’ve read it, how it’s helped (or not helped) them with thinking through and articulating their own views on Singapore and activism and society. I wrote in the book that The Singapore I Recognise is a love letter to not just civil society, but Singapore as a whole. Now this love letter is out in the world, and I wait for responses. It feels both fascinating (I really want to know!) and vulnerable (what if someone really hates it?)