I always said I would write a book. As a child, I would make up stories in my head, and as a teenager, I started my first ‘novel’, though admittedly never made it past chapter one. In fact, this became somewhat of a pattern. A great idea would sprout, and I’d draft an outline, convinced the end result would be wonderful. Again, not much beyond chapter one. Life always seemed to get in the way. It did not help that I pursued a lengthy education and then a career in health care. It was prudent. It was a safe bet. And I enjoyed the professional challenge. Yet that never-completed novel periodically poked my subconscious.
Finally, ten years ago, after a move to a new city, a decrease in my work hours (compliments of two beautiful babies), and a realization that the clock was not reversing, I dug my Doc Martens in and said enough with the excuses. Every night, from 7-10, I sat down in front of the computer and wrote. Oh, how the words flowed, how the creativity soared, how beautiful the prose. Or not. Sure, it was easy to create the story. At least in my head. Getting it down on paper and not having it sound like a high school English project was another story.
Bring on the self-doubt. And the myriad of writing and editing how-to manuals.
Fast forward two years, and the first book was finished. A 500-page medical thriller. Yes, a tad on the long side, a lot on the telling, and not much on the showing. And how about the overzealous use of adverbs? Let’s not even go there.
But my love of the process, the creating, the invention of characters so real to me I imagined them in real life, kept me going. Unfortunately, the process of rewriting was not quite as enthralling. As such, I tired of my first tome and decided to tuck it away and start anew. This time I would do better. More showing. Better dialog. Tighter plot.
And I did. At least enough so that I dared let others read it. The response was positive. Of course, they were family.
Seeking more objectivity, I hired an editor. She was good. I now had a better handle on my plot weaknesses and other technical mishaps. Finally, two years after its inception, my second medical thriller was ready for submission to agents.
Well, that was fun.
I actually had several who requested more chapters. Good sign, I thought. But then came the ever generic, ‘Sorry, but it’s just not what we’re looking for.’ Re-enter the self doubt. After dozens of rejections from agents and publishers alike, I asked myself whom I was kidding. I was not a writer. I worked in health care. Stick with what you know.
And so I did, for another three years. But the cerebral tug persisted, such that I hiked up my pants, puffed out my chest, and ‘dusted’ off the Microsoft Word file. I rewrote the novel in third person, which as a thriller I probably should have done from the start, tweaked, tightened, and trimmed. After six months I was ready again for the battlefield. But the wounds were no easier to bear. After more rejections, I halted the effort and said, ‘This book is crap.’ Back to the real world for me, which in itself was growing more tedious. I was ready for a change. But if the writing thing was not going to happen, what else was I going to do? I was too old to be starting from scratch, and yet that seemed to be just what I wanted. New job? More schooling? Become a poster child for how not to be content in life?
After much soul-searching, I decided on the second choice. But as I sent off my application materials for graduate school, I figured, what the heck, I’ll send that yellowing, worn novel off one more time. Just a small publisher, main focus on e-books but some print as well. No sooner had I submitted the manuscript than the act left my mind. I had other things to focus on. I was going back to school in 5 months!
Well, I suspect you can guess the ending to this story (or should I say the beginning?) As fate so often mocks us, one week after starting my very time-consuming, very demanding PhD program (not to mention, I was still raising a family and working part-time), I received an email congratulating me on the acceptance of my novel for publication.
Okaaay… Now what do I do?
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