In moving through the publishing process, it has been interesting to be aware of the emotions involved in each phase.

Frustration, of course.  Especially when dealing with computers, formatting, technical phrases that it’s assumed you understand.  Formatting alone is interesting because it appears each market has its own requirements.  Single spaces between sentences for e-books, starting a chapter half way down a page for the print version but not the online version…and so forth.

To frustration you can add nervousness, irritation (when you find typos after multiple readings and editing), laughter when your son has to explain something about computers that includes the rolling eyes of a teenager, and so forth.

Then there’s excitement.  Well, that’s been the interesting one.  When the proof arrived, my husband hugged it close with a huge grin.  Those friends who have edited versions since the beginning, like author Susan Schreyer and my poet friend Sabrina, are hugely excited.  But me?  Not so much.

It’s been kind of odd, and it wasn’t until attending the writer’s group last night that an explanation came forward.  I have been feeling almost a little blue, a little vulnerable (and I’m not a vulnerable type).  Here’s this story that has existed in my mind for a few years now.  The basis of the story was an unanswered question of my father’s which means that question has been around for many years, nagging me in the back of my brain where mysteries live.  And now all of a sudden, that imaginary world has taken form and is out there for everyone to see.  It’s no longer my private mystery to ponder, to change when I want, to spend time alone in, like a secret garden.

It kind of feels like those old high school stress dreams, where you dream about forgetting to get dressed before arriving in school.

I can understand that feeling of exposure, but what surprised me was that tinge of sadness.  Believe me, I’m ready for this story to be gone, out the door, leaving me alone so I can work on something else.  So where was the sadness coming from?

As my friend, another Lisa, said so succinctly at the writer’s group last night: postpartum depression.

Oh, did that make me laugh!  She’s so right.  The story lived inside, gestating, and is now in physical form, out in the world, and I’m holding the proof thinking, ‘is this it?’ ‘what do I do with it?’ and ‘this isn’t what I signed on for!’.

At least there’s no poopy diapers.

The photo below hasn’t much to do with the post other than I love the ocean and in this one there is this lonely little boat out there working it’s way home.

Why do we have such dysfunctional relationships with our creations?  I understand the first bump in the relationship road.  When you’ve just finished your piece and you are still on that emotional high from creating.  And then you let it sit a few days or few weeks and go back to edit, and realize it stinks.  It’s the worst thing you’ve ever written and there’s no hope for it at all.  There’s the first bump of many and one that makes sense to me.

As you edit you find tiny gems that make you breathe a little easier and think maybe the piece isn’t as bad as you thought.  Those gems are so important.   Without them we’d probably throw away work that should be kept.  And so it goes, through finishing editing and thinking it’s great again, to sending it out to a trusted first reader and retreating back to thinking it’s horrible again, until the reader comes back with honest, constructive comments and you feel hope again…every writer knows what I’m talking about.

I have made the decision, after a lot of thought and a lot of going back and forth, to e-publish a story.  I’ve debated all the pros and cons, and realized one of the biggest reasons I had to not e-publish was ego.  As in not feeling like a real writer until a big name publisher wants you.  But I don’t want to get sidetracked by that topic here.

This week I’ve been reviewing the cover art, which is a whole blog post on its own, working on the formatting, and all those chores.  I’ve been through loving this story, hating it, editing it many times, having it read by professionals as well as trusted friends, and spending way too much time studying each and every comma.  I also went through radiation treatments with this story and learned a lot about writing from that process.  Never, never try to edit or write when you are hunkered down in survival mode because you’ll just end up redoing everything.

What I have discovered today, is that I am way, way past the love/hate relationship with this story.  This story now feels like a young adult who has lived at home too long and needs to move out and live without the parent.  It’s time to let go, time for the story to move on without me.  Time for it to stand on its own and succeed or fail on its own merits.  I realize that if I don’t e-publish this story, it will live out the rest of its life in a file on the laptop.  And I don’t think that’s why it wanted to be told, why it haunted me for so long, begging to get written.  I think this story wants to be released, too.

Or maybe it’s just me looking for reasons to get rid of it once and for all.  Once it has moved out, I will love it again.

The Memory Keeper cover

I have been receiving writing prompts (thank you Lisa) but have only posted the results here once as I hesitate to share my shaky attempts.  With that said, one of the exercises was ‘What Runs Through My Veins Besides Blood’ and I want to post the result here.  No editing again, no chance to revise, and I think it’s corny.  But since it’s about writing, here goes, and feel free to skip to the end and tell me what runs through your veins.

My first gut reaction to the question was, of course, to answer ‘words’…

When I don’t write, when I choose the television, the book, the chores, I betray the gift, betray the words.

When I don’t write, when I give in to feelings of inadequacy, of limited ability, inexperience, I betray the story begging to be told.

When I don’t write, when I fear the untold story, fear not living up to its expectations, fear not being able to capture it, finish it, do it justice, I betray its soul, betray those living words.

When I don’t write, when I don’t feed words to my spirit, I betray myself, starve my being.

But when I do write, music fills that starving soul, the universe joins me, I soar, I am not alone, words bear me away into the story world, into dreams.

And when I do write, stress becomes manageable, troubles diminish, beauty comes into my world.

So then why do I not write every single second of every single minute?

Because it is too easy to forget, too easy to look away.  Until I start to write, I am only caught up in the stress of life.

Until that moment when I force myself to dip back into a story.

And then it all comes rushing back and I wonder, why did I ever walk away?