There She Goes

Sometimes we call our manuscripts our babies. The works in progress we’ve been pecking away at for more than a decade. The novel we’ve spent years trying to perfect, preparing to send out into the world for others to see.

Recently, I finished the novel that began as a tiny infant, just a glimmer of hope with an infinitesimally small idea of what would come of her. I sent her off to publishers, not really sure what would happen next, with excitement and much anticipation for the future, a little bit of dread that I didn’t get it right, didn’t do enough to make sure it was ready, and sadness, that those chapters are done, never to be written or even rewritten again.

And yesterday, I sent my real baby off to college. My tiny infant has become a full-fledged adult being, though still awaiting some fine-tuning as the time marches on, but as prepared as she can be for the next step.

In a lot of ways these babies are similar. Sending our writing babies off into the next phase of their lives is a lot like sending our children off to college. I wake up in the middle of the early morning, before the sun comes up, and I start to worry. Did I do everything I could to prepare her? Should I move things around? Should I change things up? Should I revisit our conversation? I worried. I worried that things were going in the wrong direction, that I’d messed up, that I couldn’t fix her problems, no matter how hard I tried. Over the years, I woke up many times imagining dialogue and scenes in the darkness. It never went quite the same as I practiced in my head, but most of the time it turned out much better than I thought it would. 

In my heart, I know that I did everything I could to help make my baby become the best she can be. I read books. I took her outside to explore. I brought her on adventures. I nurtured her. I made mistakes and learned from them. I did better the next time. I added color and texture to her experiences. And even when I had my doubts, even when I worried that she might not turn out exactly the way I envisioned, I loved her the whole way and knew she was the best thing I’d ever created.

I’m sad that this book is closed, that I can’t go back and relive the pages of this story anymore. But as hard as it is, I know that it’s time to move on to something different, something new.

I’m excited for that. I’m looking forward to whatever comes next. And I really have no idea what will happen. Will there be rejection? Will there be heartache? Will the things I thought were done still need more work? Will she find where she belongs? Will she be accepted right away? Will she change for the better? I’m sure there will be many surprises along the way, both good and bad. That’s scary, but it’s thrilling, and I’m just happy to be along for the ride.

They’re very different too. Sending my baby off to college is not at all like sending my manuscript out for publishers to see. She’s a piece of my heart that is irreplaceable. I begin writing my next story, and my thoughts turn to this new character, with his own struggles and desires. I wake up thinking of ways to make his story better, and I’ve all but forgotten about the last story I wrote. It doesn’t work that way in real life. I have two other works in progress at home, with worries and desires of their own, but we don’t move on so easily to the next thing without still wishing she was part of it. She is, but her role is different now. It’s written in text messages and appears on phone screens. In some ways, we now get to see a part of her that we never knew before, the part with her own big stories to tell, with her own plot to create, with rises and falls and a happy ending – and many new beginnings – we couldn’t begin to predict. Now she’s a little more on her own, where she depends on new people to help her become the very best version of herself, but she’s still my baby. And I can’t wait to see what happens next.