A few weeks ago, I sent my 65,000 word novel off to an independent publisher in Seattle.
And, now I wait.
When I was writing the story, I often thought of it as a human being. I built the skeleton first, and one by one added the muscles and essential organs. Then I put the nervous and circulatory systems into place to ensure all the parts of the story were connected. Lastly I added the skin and facial features to encapsulate my words and make the finished product more appealing to the eyes/mind.
One of the hardest things about building my story was discovering many, many benign tumors that needed excised. While they apparently did no damage to the body as a whole, I had to admit that the story was much healthier when they were gone.
Like the proud parent that I am in real life, I was ecstatic when “Rebecca” could stand on two feet and eventually even began to think for herself.
Like the anxious parent that I am in real life, I hesitated for months before sending my finished work out into the real world. I wanted to make sure that Rebecca was perfectly prepared to live by herself without my guidance and tutorage. I would think she was ready to go and find her shirt needed ironed, or hair needed trimmed, or she had a smudge of food on her face. Finally, I knew it was time to let her go and see if she would be accepted by society.
And now I wait.
Funny, I don’t really think of the story as my child (I picture myself more as a mad scientist) but those correlations are endless. For instance, now that I gave the first one my all – put in my very best effort to raise it right – I am starting all over again with number two. And, just as different as two children can be, these two stories are nothing alike – other than the fact that they come from the same lineage. (The first is an introspective military/survival/murder thriller and the second is a more humorous but still dark take on vigilante society women...)
Will my creation be accepted by this publisher or will I need to have her come back home for more preparation before driving her back to the bus station to try yet again? I do not know. But patience is a virtue…one I do not have, so while I wait, I write. "Justice Mae Applebaum" needs a femur.