With the exception of five, maybe six, chapters, my manuscript will be complete. Of course, I have at least two rounds of revisions. Also, I query it upon at least one revision. Furthermore, I still have to decide if I’ll go either the traditional or self-publishing route.
Yet, even with the work ahead of me as an author, I feel incredible sadness.
Perhaps, it’s the end of the second stage (First revision) that saddens me. Pretty soon, I will have a literary agent and a new stage to complete. Like leaving home for the first time, I have to come to grips with finding my fit in a crowded room of word lovers like me.
Mind you, I do not shed a tear. My sadness is not that kind of sadness. It is a sadness aimed at maturity. My soul pines for clean first beginnings – the easiest stage of thinking of a new idea. With fresh virgin eyes, I created an idea for a story. Now, that baby’s growing and asking for space, and I, as its mother, do not know how to handle my child’s growth spurt.
I realize I am personifying a novel. Who does that? Many writers. I am not alone. Words are not just words. They are late nights fighting your mind to come up with proper sentencing, dialogue, and narrative. They are days sitting at a coffeehouse drinking more lattes than writing. They are going to bookstores, praying to see your work on shelves one day.
Words are life.
Life are words.
My words are growing.
My life is changing.
My heart is breaking.
But, nevertheless, I persevere to the next stage, wondering about the marks I will make. That is, if I make any at all, and then, I will find a new sadness for a new stage.
Until then, I guess I will enjoy my blubbering because I do not know what the next stage and its sadness looks like.
Featured Image: Marta DeWinter