People who have died and come back to life describe the sensation of hovering above their own bodies as if they were rigged to a fly system up in the corner of the room. As if they were leaving this world as Peter Pans or Tinkerbells. Weirdly, that was the same feeling I got when I visited this page after so long. I recognized the writing but felt an odd sense of remove from it. What was I thinking when I matched that image to this piece of writing? I fear I have failed at this project of blogging about the book. My firstborn might say to me “But you didn’t really try that hard.” That is a common refrain of hers. And she would be right. I am still sorting out what lessons this failure is supposed to teach me.
My shitty first draft (nod to Anne Lamott: can writers use any other descriptor but hers now for a rough draft?) got sent out to an editor. I read somewhere once that you will know when it’s time to send out your manuscript. For me, it was an unspecified point between what felt like a case of morning sickness set in with each pass of the manuscript and when setting it on fire seemed a reasonable idea. I lost track of how many times I rearranged the deck chairs.
The prospective editor was prompt and gracious in getting back to me. He promised to read it and let me know if he would be able to take it on. All I can think about now is rejection. I’ve gotten better at rejection after so many years. This prospective editor is not my ideal audience. After all, it is a girl’s story, a “This Girl’s Life,” without the childhood backstory. But he doesn’t have to be my ideal reader to help me get it up to snuff to be published. Getting rejected by someone I’m willing to pay would be good practice I suppose. I should be building up the callouses to make the submission process less painful.
Part of me can’t believe I did it. The manuscript came up short, coming in at 208 pages. My cousin, Jen, texted only “finally” when I shared the news about the prospective editor with her. I am far from being done with this project. I have to battle with my brain to get myself to finish it. I didn’t become a Marquez or a Hemingway or a Didion like I’d hoped I might. If I can get that one book on the library shelf, that will be enough. Patty was tethered to me. Whether I liked it or not, whether I wanted that or not. I feel that tug to this day.
