Letting Go

My book is due in two weeks. I’m on track to finish; this week will be formatting (the publisher requires the text in a very specific format) and final proofread. Then it’s time to let this baby go.

I continue to go back and forth between thinking it’s fantastic, and thinking it’s utter crap that no one is ever going to read. Perhaps its both: how many brilliant books exist that no one has ever read? I guess in both ways, this is just what being a writer is all about – self-doubt and words falling on deaf ears. It’s a hard business to be in.

The one thing I’ve learned through this process is this: if I want to write a book, I can actually write a book.

I know some authors feel like they must write, that they cannot live without writing, but for me the pain of creation is real. The horror of the blank page is real. I have to force myself to do it, and that usually means everything else in life takes precedence. Why torture myself when there is laundry to be done, dinner to make, Christmas gifts to knit?

These past six months, I’ve done nothing else but work and write. I’ll be happy to have some time back for seeing friends, evenings spent flaking in front of the TV, sleeping in; I’m not in any rush to go back to the all-writing, all-the-time lifestyle.

But at least I know this: it is possible.

I can, if I make it a priority, actually write stuff, good stuff (well, maybe?). I can, if I spend the hours with my butt in a chair, complete a whole 88000 words, and get it into fighting shape. It is possible to make space for this in my life and to make it happen.

So what will I do next? Will I miss this writing life, will it become a new habit? Or will I run screaming? Or something in the middle?

I’ll let you know in January, after a nice long string of sleeping in.

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