The final post in a four-part series before the release of Kaylene’s first novel on April 17…

 

I’ve never given birth to a child. But I have felt the pangs of labor. 

A book and a baby are alike in some ways. Both are often conceived in love. Both require a long period of incubation and growth in the deepest places of the carrier. And both come forth at last through the most grueling ending – the final hours of blood, sweat, and tears.

Then what are both mother and author left with? A small but magnificent creation. A beautiful gift. And a bundle of potential they want to share with the world.

But this is scary.

For the world will look at the baby and judge it. Some will say it’s cute – and mean it. Some will say it’s nice while privately thinking otherwise. And some will tell the parents (or the child as he/she grows) that their little treasure is no treasure at all.

And the world will look at the book and judge it. Some will say it’s good – and mean it. Some will say it’s okay but quietly complain about elements they don’t like and rate it halfheartedly. And some will tell the author (or everyone else of their acquaintance) that the written creation is a piece of garbage.

I thought the hardest part of writing a novel would be starting. Then I thought the hardest part would be getting over the hump in the middle of the draft. Then finishing the draft. Then getting stuck time and again in the revising process. Then surviving the red pen of the professional editors. Then moving past the rejection of publishers and agents and more publishers. Then working feverishly through the last, crazy edits of the galley…

I was wrong.

I think the hardest part is now. Hours away from the moment my baby will be released to a judging world. Anticipating this moment with great joy because I want to share the story. Yet holding my breath because I can’t control what other people will say about it.

Like a good mother, I know the truth about my baby and will love it, no matter what the world may say. So if there’s anything to be learned from critiques and criticisms, bring ’em on. But in the end, I have told the story I was given to tell. And there is a joy in that no amount of judgement can touch.