I’m growing as a writer. That’s kind of a given since generally any writer who keeps at their craft grows as a writer, but I’m going through a rough patch that I’m quite content to go through. I just received my book from my editor.
Quick detour: There’s this dream that I had once. My book came back with the barest of marks and only glowing comments. The gods of Gardas laughed and laughed…
What I received in my inbox this morning was…well it took a pin to that ballooned superego of mine. It reminded me that this is only the second book that I’ve ever written. Trust me when I say that I’ve come so much farther than where I initially started. Inside tibit: I did no world-building for my first paranormal (vampire) romance. *shudder* Can you tell I started out in clueless land or what?
Anyway, I woke to a email stating my book is ready for me to get to work. I read her comments before I started and…My editor said she ran out of colors to differentiate between errors. I laughed at that when I read her comment. No, it wasn’t to keep from crying.
For me, to grow is to embrace the struggles of that awkward phase where you don’t know what is going on and how things should work. You know, those preteen years where everyone is gangly and funny looking? Where no one understands their emotions, but everyone is in a seemingly everlasting state of feels? Yeah, that but in writing.
I’m lucky that she actually liked the book. I have some work cut out for me, but nothing quite as bad as making it through those formative years full of an abundance of emotions, pimples and a body that grew hair in unfortunate places.
If I disappear, it’s because I’m growing. It hurts, but growth worth having is never without a little bit of pain.