I started writing my first novel more than two decades ago. We were driving by a life-sized Nativity scene, and one of our children said, “I wonder what happened to the shepherds after that?” A little shepherd boy popped immediately into my head, and I was pretty sure he would answer the question if I just gave him some time.
The first draft was done on a manual typewriter between laundry loads when our children were young. After the first revision, an editor friend agreed to read the book. He worked for a tiny publishing house, and his advice to me was like manna. After the next revision, we started talking about contracts. Fortunately for the reading public, the project died. The publishing house went out of business, and the immature novel went into a drawer. It stayed there years at a time. Every now and then, I would pull it out, refresh my research, and write again.
Last fall, I finished the book. The child who asked the original question was now a parent, and the little shepherd boy had reached adulthood almost in real-time. I sent the book off to a highly-competitive first novel contest where it received absolutely no attention. The “Nice Try” letter praised my achievement for actually writing a book, and it noted the judges’ comment that the book “had POV problems and awkward interjections of exposition.” (Not that I memorized the phrase or anything.) Even though the words stung, I understood what they meant, and I knew the book needed a little more tweaking.
All writers know books are like children. We conceive them, labor over them, birth them, guide them through awkward adolesence, and then polish them up so we can present them to the world in their adult form. But, I found myself loathe to do so. I did not want to send my first child out into the cold, hard world of publishing to be rejected yet again. I put it back in the drawer and moved on to something else.
Then, our son left home. He was a grown man, of course, with a wife and two children of his own. But he had never lived more than three blocks away when he decided to move his family 900 miles cross-country to launch a career in law enforcement. As we helped them pack, I remembered something Joe taught me several years ago.
He was target shooting with a compound bow at the time. I have never understood exactly how that works, but evidently on the first stage of the pull, one feels the full weight of the sixty pounds of resistance. It is hard work. Then the taut string reaches a point where the pulleys take over. Sudenlly, the pulling is easy. “It’s the sweet point,” Joe told me. “You feel like you could hold that position forever. But, you can’t. If you wait even a few seconds too long, you will waver just a little. You may not even notice it, but when you finally let go, the shot will be off. The arrow won’t hit the center.”
Joe was only sixteen at the time, but he went on to tell me he supposed child-rearing was the same. Parents must reach a point where their children become their friends, where their efforts pay off and the task is pretty much pure pleasure. I told him that was true. We were reaching such a point even then. “Well,” he said, “Make sure you let go of us at the right time so we’ll fly straight.”
Right.
Letting go was easy when none of our children moved more than a few hours away from home. Joe and Chelle have spent the past five years literally living in our back yard. I came home almost every evening to find their little girls in my kitchen waiting for a snack. Joe’s prophetic picture had come true. Our kids really were our best friends, and watching a couple of them move across the country was pretty hard to take.
When I was contemplating the change one night, I said to my husband, “What am I going to do when those little girls don’t drop in every night anymore?”
He didn’t even look up when he answered. “Write.”
And so I shall. The arrow who is our only son among three daughters has flown straight and strong. We are bursting with pride and planning our next vacation in the wild west. In the meantime, I’m savoring the silent nights. And, if you will please excuse me now, I have a novel to tweak.
And we in the body of Christ are blessed to peer into the creativity and life that God has given you to share. Even if it was once upon a time and a few little booklets…it meant a lot, thanks for sharing.
Lovely blog post again. I won’t think about the part that makes me want to CRY – like that picture or the fact that all along we’re just teaching them to leave. But I do adore the writing thoughts. Be brave. It probably won’t be nearly as cold and hard when it’s not a contest.
I’m flabbergasted. I had no idea you had a “baby” in a drawer. It is amazing to me that the helpful POV issue wasn’t worth correcting as editing before publication. The “awkward interjections of exposition” are correctable, too. He should have commented on the immense value of growing that little boy to adulthood and how interesting the story idea is. Sounds like you are right in believing that this is the time to “push,” because neither objection is worthy of delay. If that is all he had to say, then you have a great little baby there.
Thanks for the support, Serenity and Paul. The judges really didn’t have time to comment fully on every entry. But I did use this novel for most of my assignments in my recent fiction course and got good feedback. I’m on it! (and I actually have a couple other novels in various stages of progress.)
I’m sure that when the rest of the world gets a taste of your writing they will be as eager for more as we are!
AHHHHH…….so good to read your thoughts, and hear your stories, and here I just figured all those years your were “just” rearing children, and taking care of Wendell 😉
I’m soooo glad your here!
Ooohhh…. I feel every word. Parenting has revealed a whole new emotion to me that I never knew existed. It’s that simultaneous bursting-with-joy and most-painful-moment-of-my-life feeling. I’m not sure there’s even a name for it. It’s so wonderful to watch them grow up. So painful to let them go.
Um. I’m tearing up.