My Books Are So Like My Children

What is this emptiness I’m feeling inside today?

I poured my imagination, my heart, and my time into writing the newest segment of my developing series about the world of Heaven's Wait. I conceived the idea for the work. I gave birth to its opening words. I coddled it, nurtured it, massaged it, and molded it as it gradually grew and flowered. When it gave me trouble, I allowed it breathing room. When it brought me inspiration, I bathed in its gift. When it was clear it had reached maturity, I presented it with its final sentence. Then I scrutinized the work again and again, hoping to send it on its way in its best possible form.

Now I’ve sent it out for further scrutiny by a professional story consultant. I look forward to his critique and ideas for improvement. I expect it to return with scrapes and bruises, perhaps in need of a few transplants as well. But I know its wounds will have been inflicted for the good of the story, and I’m excited to see how much better and stronger it can become as a result of its journey.

I realize that the emptiness I feel is the same emotion I felt when my sons went off to kindergarten and then as teenagers went off to college. I was proud at those moments but at the same time sad that our exclusive relationships had come to an end. No longer did I have them to myself. No longer was I the main influence in their lives. They became better individuals because of their broadened exposure. And our relationships did not come to an end by any means. They simply became different. We now enjoy stronger, more mature bonds, and they enjoy a richer life experience because I let them go.

My story will travel the same route. I will no longer have the exclusive relationship with it I once had. It will be influenced by the critique of others, whether I heed the advice I receive or not. I will still have a strong relationship with the story, but it will be of a different nature. And, in the end, the story will be better because I let it go.