I'm not a writer, but if I was, my first book would be sent out into the dark world with similar feelings.
Billy Collins, thanks goodness, is an exceptional writer. This was the last poem in his 2008 collection, Ballistics.
Go, little book,
out of this house and into the world,
carriage made of paper rolling toward town
bearing a single passenger
beyond the reach of this jitter pen,
far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.
It is time to decamp,
put on a jacket and venture outside,
time to be regarded by other eyes,
bound to be held in foreign hands.
So, off you go, infants of the brain,
with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:
stay out a late as you like,
don’t bother to call or write
and talk to as many strangers as you can.
by Billy Collins, from Ballistics, 2008