“How’s the book? How far along are you with your book?” friends and relatives ask.
“I’m still working on it,” I say, embarrassed. It takes a long time to write a book. Most of the hours in each day, every day of the week, I write. Standing over the kitchen counter, sitting at the dining room table with the dog at my feet, on the computer with the dog on my lap, with a clipboard on my lap as I drive, in bed, in waiting areas of offices and on the deck by the pond as I watch a small green heron, I write my book. Two and a half years ago I hoped with all my heart that my daughter would live. Now I spend all my energy and wishes on my book.
“You should check out Literary Marketplace online,” say friends. “You need to get an agent.”
Swenson Book Development sends an email with this week’s post about various types of editors.
“How long have you been writing this book now – two years?” my mother asks.
It is a sweet time as I read the book over “once more” after the latest changes, and then “once more” again.
“It won’t be forever,” I say. “Besides, I don’t know what’s next in my life yet.”
But really, I’m afraid to bring my book to an agent or editor. It’s like going to the doctor or dentist. I’m scared something major will be found to be wrong. My manuscript might be eradicated or ripped to shreds. It could be painful.
So I nurse the book a little longer, memorize its features, and love it like it’s a daughter with cancer.