This is the first time in just over three years that my first born novel and I have been separated. It has been a month since I hit send and catapulted my baby out into a world where there is so much writing talent.
Another first is that it was the whole manuscript this time, not the synopsis, not the first three pages, not the first three chapters, the whole shebang. Forty-years worth of the life and times of the emotionally fragile Lisa Grant, ex-columnist for one of the UK’s leading magazines with a quest to dig herself out of her self-dug rut… encapsulated in 88,000 words.
Lisa Grant’s life laid bare for the first time, is a chilling concept. It’s just been the two of us in my woman cave for so long. Her story is being read for the first time by a writing tutor and published author, so her opinion means a great deal to me.
Over the last month, I have managed to resist the overwhelming temptation to click open the manuscript file. I have destroyed all paper copies because I know there is still much work to be done. I will be patient and wait for concrete feedback, but I know there are flaws, I have nightmares about them. Lisa Grant is trapped somewhere because I haven’t unlocked a door for her. Some chapters need thinning, others contain yawning crevices that yearn to be filled because I know I rushed things, especially in the later chapters, excited to reach The End.
I am prepared for rejection, but I have spent so much time investing myself in the life of Lisa Grant and in The End, I don’t intend to shortchange her, I want her life to be worthy enough to mean something to many.
“The only mortal sin is giving up.”
… and I’m too far gone for that.