As I write this, I am gearing up to share the first draft of my finished novel with some folks who have generously (and perhaps foolishly) agreed to take a look at it for me. Out of morbid curiosity, out of pity,  because they’re bored and not traveling over spring break, because they owe me one–take your pick.

I’m doing this because I have been a faithful little writers’-book junkie, and all those books tell novice writers that they must, simply must, show their work to someone before shooting it off to a publisher or literary agent or the chances of their manuscripts being published shrink dramatically. I believe them, because at this point, let’s face it, their books are in print, and mine is still in a Word file. But the very thought of sharing my manuscript is giving me the heebie jeebies.

It’s not that I don’t trust the people who want to read it; I do. But the combination of my low self-esteem and my occasional lack of faith in myself makes me fearful: What if they don’t like it? What if they read it and laugh at my feeble attempt at storytelling? (Note poignant illustration of esteem problem.) What if they pass it around to other people and use it to make fun of my unattainable dream behind my back?

In my demented mindset, it never occurs to me to ask, What if they love it?  What if they have good suggestions for it? What if they know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who can put it the hands of somebody who can really help me with it? Nope–other than at this very moment, it doesn’t occur to me to look at it that way at all.

So, I will make copies and send file attachments to these wonderful, patient (they have to be if they know me) people and hold my breath until they’ve finished reading it. I will submit myself to their examination and cross-examination of my manuscript, even though I’ll hate every minute of doing so. It’s not that I think my work is perfect, it’s that it’s easier for me to submit it to an anonymous publisher or agent than it is to submit to people I have to see or work with or look in the eye.

I so wish I could be curmudgeonly and fierce about not wanting to show my work to anyone before publication. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be Philip Pullman: “Do they imagine writing as a collaborative activity where you write a bit, then share it and talk about it, and people take it to pieces? Then you go back and write a bit more and show it again, and they take it to pieces again?… For me, anyway, it’s not like that. Writing is spending a long time in silence, by myself, and covering up the work when anyone comes in the room so they can’t see it. ” (from an interview with Dave Welch for Powells.com) I guess once you’ve gotten yourself published, then you can afford to wait until publication to show it. But how do you get yourself published without showing it to others (not publishers and agents) first? If there’s anyone out there who’s figured that one out, I’d love to hear the answer.

In the meantime, I’ll share, uncomfortably and with great trepidation. But listen up, once I get published, nobody gets advance copies. Not nobody, not no how.

Well, after taking a week, more or less, to catch up on my responsibilities as a domestic goddess (stop laughing right now) I’m back to the work of trying to get my novel published. At this point, that translates to total drudgery: editing, passing it by friends and family, more editing, researching Markets and Agents and Publishers, oh, my.

You know, I read somewhere once that it takes a special kind of crazy person to actually complete a novel. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here by asserting that that’s only half of a writer’s insanity plea: if you’re not already crazy from writing the book, then the massive amounts of work required to try to get it in front of the right publisher will finish the job nicely.

I have been sitting at my computer for three hours straight, and have done nothing but edit, research, create basic initial synopses, and rough out potential queries. I have to say, I was actually happy to take a break from doing that to visit my friendly neighborhood freelance job site (Whorelance, I saw one fellow writer call it) to try to track down some freelance work that will actually pay. No, I don’t get credit for ghostwriting, thank you very much for pointing that out, but at least they pay–well, some of the time.

Back when I was a teacher and had to do 12-page district applications (complete with essay questions, no less–can I put those in my portfolio?) to find a job, I thought that was a time-consuming process, but schools have nuthin’ on literary agents and publishing houses for making you jump through inexplicably complicated and time-consuming sets of hoops.

I know, whine, whine, whine–what can I say? Two more sub-zero days in Minnesota this week (I don’t care if the sun is out or not–it’s cold!) and my resolve to give up negativity for Lent has frozen to death.  Hopefully it’ll thaw out this weekend. In the meantime, I’ll just keep plugging away and hope that somebody puts me out of my misery (Hey! Figuratively, not literally!) soon. Anybody got an extra space heater?

I was talking about movies this morning with some good friends, and we were sharing our opinions of a movie  two of us had recently seen. Now, I had loved the movie in question. I had found it lushly animated, voiced with an uncanny marksmanship, and intensely imaginative. One of my friends, however, made a moue of distaste when asked her opinion. She didn’t care for the darker, more disturbing elements of the film.

Perhaps it was that I was already acquainted with the writer’s larger body of work, so I was prepared for more of his unique dance on the line between darkness and light, his unnerving portrayals of the unseemly and unsettling aspects of what lies beneath all that is goodness and sunshine. For some, that vision is too discomfiting to be enjoyable. I was transported, while she found herself squirmingly rooted to her seat.

Our “potato–po-tah-to” parting of ways about this movie wasn’t earth-shattering; we all like what we like, for reasons sometimes unknown even to ourselves.

What struck me about it was how unpredictable those reactions can be in any given audience, for we have seen movies together before and had violently identical reactions to them. But, particularly because I am beginning to prepare my second novel for (hopeful) publication, I find those differences in opinion a bit more unsettling now.

 I find myself imagining that every person who will be reading my novel now, just as every viewer who watched that film did, will have a slightly different reaction to it, one colored by their experiences, by their tastes, by their sleep habits, by the amount of patience they have, whatever happens to be at hand the day it comes to their attention. 

And imagining, I wonder: Will it land in the hands of someone who will see it as I saw it? Who will read it as I wrote it?  Will the one person who reads it and doesn’t care for it stop it from getting into the hands of one who may love it?

 The onset of this new round of submissions has me fearing (in all honesty, knowing more than fearing) that publication, if it comes, may come more as a result of luck and timing than any other thing, and I find that daunting and not a little depressing, though it won’t stop me from submitting.

Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking today as I continue my research of publishers and agents. Which one might be the one who will like it?

As most writers do, for every project I complete, I have a backlog of others that I’ve been researching, outlining, cogitating upon.

Now, the next book I’ve chosen to focus on from my holding pen happens to be in the genre of youth fantasy, which is a departure from my first two novels, to say the very least.

I have been sharing some of my thoughts for the book with my daughter, who is eagerly awaiting the first chapter. We sat at her brother’s soccer practice last weekend, chatting animatedly about characters and background, completely oblivious to the curious stares of other parents listening in on our conversation.

It hadn’t occurred to me until a phone call to the library yesterday just how bizarre we must have sounded. I was trying to locate a children’s book to read to my older son’s class, and had one in mind that we’d enjoyed immensely over the summer. The problem was that I couldn’t remember the title or the author, so I was attempting to describe the plot to the incredibly patient librarian on the line:

“There’s this really short godmother, I think she’s Yiddish or something, ’cause it looks like she’s wearing a babushka. There’s a sleeping princess who can only be awakened by a perfect peach, and the godmother doesn’t like either of the peasant woman’s 2 older sons, because they’re rude to her in the forest, so she sabotages their quest for the perfect peach. But she likes the youngest one, so she gives him a magic flute which he can use to summon all 100 of  the king’s rabbits at once for the stew, and if he doesn’t lose one, he gets a chance to save the princess.”

The librarian paused for a moment, allowing me the opportunity to replay in my head what I’d just said to her, and as I did, it occurred to me how crazy I sounded.

After reassuring her that I was not, in fact, on crack, and that this was a real book, I tried to describe the cover to her. Taking down my information, she assured me she’d do her best to find it.

After I hung up, I shook my head ruefully, thinking about how my description of that far-out story must have sounded to her. I held out little hope of anyone being able to make enough sense of those plot points to identify the work in question.

But I had underestimated the librarian: she called me less than fifteen minutes later with the title and author and offered to place a hold on it for me.

“I’m so glad you found it! Otherwise you might have thought you were talking to a crazy person!” I laughed.

“Not at all,” she replied, “That’s actually pretty tame for a children’s book plot.”

The lesson I’m going to keep in mind as I begin my next book is that often, the things that seem the craziest to adults are  the very things that children find the most endearing and imaginative. Those are the things that invite them to open a book in the first place.

As for my novel, I did take a break yesterday, but I spent it playing Chutes & Ladders with my kids instead of cleaning out the refrigerator or catching up on laundry. Today’s another day.

It is finished! Yes, my novel!

I felt it in my bones that today would be, had to be, The Day, and so it was. I have been sitting at my keyboard for the last six hours in a forced march to cross the finish line, and I am done.

I know that writing the book is only a part of the battle to getting published and that there are many more hills for me to climb on the next leg of this journey: I know I need to work up a “job description” to find the right editor; I know I need to work on researching potential publishers and agents; I know I need to get my synopsis polished; I know I need to start working on my query letters.

But today, in celebration of having reached the end of stage one, I will do none of those things. Today, and for the rest of the day, I will devote what little energy I have left in reserve to the details of my daily life which I have been largely ignoring for the past two weeks and which blessedly will not require one iota of creativity: enough dirty laundry to clothe a small nation; a refrigerator full of leftovers needing haircuts; a week’s worth of unreturned phone calls; and a workout sorely needed.

Tomorrow I will begin again.