Our manuscripts are our babies.
We create them, tend them, care for them. We wrap them up with hope and love and work to send them out into the world to do good. We wish the best for them.
This summer I had the pleasure and privilege of “parenting” babies at different stages of development.
I’ve been working on revisions for my novel that will be published by Little, Brown – that’s my teen child.
She’s standing on her own most of the time. She’s already revealed herself. I know her distinct personality. She is who she is. I’m still trying to get her ready and fortified for her upcoming step into the wide open world where I can’t protect her all the time; but she’s already headed down a certain kind of path.
And then there’s the baby. The new WIP. Who, like all babies is, well, messy. There’s a lot of clean up, all the time. I don’t always know what he’s trying to tell me. He fusses one day and grins the next. He’s unpredictable and unscheduled. He’s exhausting in a very different way than that teen child. But besides the messes and the fusses, he smells of possibility. Of choices not yet made. There are so many ways he could turn out.
I love them both. Wish them great wonderful adventures. But no matter what, they’ll always have a place right here with me.
Even if they get put in the time out drawer.
What? You don’t put babies in time out drawers? Am I doing something wrong?
WRITING ON THE SIDEWALK