WRITING

I Sent My Baby Out Into The Cold, Cruel World. . . I Knew It Was Too Soon

Nine months to write a book. The pain of doubt and, occasionally, the joy of creating. Nine months, then the agonising labour of the last chapter, a final push, and there it is. Your precious creation

You hardly dare look too closely in case it’s missing something. If it is, you don’t want to know. It’s consumed most of your waking moments, caused sleepless nights, you can’t go through it all over again.

Time to send it out into the world.

I wrote that eight years ago, one year after I’d moved to France.

When people in the States asked what I’d do in France, how I’d spend my days, I said I’d be busy finishing my book. Which I did, sort of . . .

Except it never really left home.

Let’s call the book, Margaret. She’s the main character. A fifteen-year-old English girl living, unhappily, in the Pacific Northwest.

Nine years on, and Margaret remains unfinished. Just hanging around refusing to leave, getting older and unhappier.

Occasionally, like an anxious mother, I’ll look it over. Give Margaret a pep talk. Really, I see the good in you. I see potential. Someone somewhere will see you as I do. All your quirkiness and sly humour.

And then I sigh and shut the door on Margaret and her unhappiness.

Here’s the problem. Or one of them.

Margaret was, if you will, born prematurely. Sent it out into the world before she was ready. I knew that at the time. I also knew the reception she would get. I did it anyway.

My journal entry after I’d sent it off.

I need a big, gloomy emoticon. Last week, I began the search for a new agent for the baby (AKA the book) that’s been gestating for the past one hundred and five years, three months and ten days.

Finally, I sent it off into the big cruel world to see if anyone might possibly love it as I do.

I’ve been through this process before. Many times. I know all the stories about rejection and how you don’t take it personally. Everybody gets rejected, blah, blah blah. So the e-mail, an almost instant and depressingly impersonal response, from one of the agencies I queried shouldn’t really bring on a case of the full-on, paralytic doldrums.

But . . . I’m sitting here wanting to rip everything to shreds. I hate my characters, the plot is wimpy, I’ll never understand high concept.

And, sorry, I hate my baby. Why do people write? I don’t really want an answer, I just want sympathy and wine. Lots of wine.

All pretty much how I feel about it today. . . not the sympathy or wine (at the moment anyway) just the agony of putting months, sometimes years, into a book. Of believing in it at first, then not quite believing enough and finally becoming too discouraged with the process to see it all the way through.

Can I revive Margaret? Sometimes I think so, but I’m not sure I have the enthusiasm or commitment.

And I don’t think it’s just problems with the book — the scenes that won’t come together, characters that feel flat, the unsatisfactory ending — it’s all the gremlins of self-doubt that need little if any encouragement to invade. I don’t know if I can go through it all again.

Creativity can be a bit of a two-edged sword. My mind is constantly creating plots full of conflict, angst, and misunderstanding — great for fiction, not so great when they spill over into real life.

So, what’s the message here? I’m honestly not sure. Maybe think hard before you embark on something as life-consuming as a book. Do you believe in it enough to see it through to the end? Will you still believe in it when others don’t? Can you battle on through the self-doubt, the strained relationships it will likely entail?

And, will you have the patience not to send it out in the world before it’s ready?

If not, you could be stuck with an over-aged kid who might never leave home.

The following link has a bit more about the Margaret book — —sending it out too soon wasn’t the only issue. I’d also been attacked by gremlins and the realities of turning 70.

A link to other stories about the thrills and chills of the writing life . . .

Did you know that you can also take me along on your walk, or wherever? Just press the listen button at the top of the story to hear it read aloud.

Thanks in advance.