You did it. You completed a book. It’s comparable to giving birth in many ways. People congratulate you. Other writers empathize with your countless hours of labor. You dream of all it could become and pre-celebrate its potential.
Only your book skips childhood and moves out immediately. It is independent the moment the editorial cord is cut. When Kahlil Gibran said “they come through you but not from you” about children, you understand it applies to your book. It lives separate from you and only needs you as a reference as it searches for a niche of its own.
You try to help. You write a letter, summarizing why it’s worthy of notice. You feel like a pimp but you rationalize that it’s part of life. The alternative is your precious manuscript moving into your basement and having no life at all. (Chances are, you’re running out of room in your metaphorical basement.)
Your young book finds the world to be harsh. It waits in long lines. It is overlooked in favor of books with better-known creators. It moves in on a trial basis with someone only to be rejected. It is rejected because it’s not something enough, too something else, or not what is expected.
It’s not that you believe your book is perfect. You know it is flawed because you are flawed. The pure idea you originally felt was filtered through your faults. It was the best you could do. You still see the beauty in it and the praise it garners feels warranted. But you know it could be months or even years before it finds a home of its own.
Meanwhile, you are advised to begin a new book. You are still exhausted from the last birth. The setting from your most recent book is still a living place in your brain. The beds of your newly departed characters are still warm, unmade, and scented by their uniqueness.
Most importantly, there is no idea. You struggle to remember how you ever got an idea before. In retrospect, it seems to be a magical experience that may only happen once in a lifetime. Until the muses choose you again, waiting is all there is.
