Disclaimer: I’m no Hemingway. I don’t write drunk. I fall asleep after one glass of wine–on the sofa, with five or six of my closest friends. But I will admit to sharing a cold chardonnay with Edgar Rice Burro from time to time.
I’m just like most women. My longest relationship is with some extra weight I carry. We have broken up and gotten back together more times than I can remember. Dieting gave me a bad reputation, we were too obsessed with each other, and I let his opinions have too much power. So eventually I let him go and decided to make friends with myself instead. Almost anything is healthier than a diet that punishes and isolates, and there’s much less guilt to carry this way.
My writing process is not any more gazelle-like. The first draft of anything I write is fat and lumbering. It isn’t very smart; it has a tendency to crouch in the corner and mumble. It dresses cheap in baggy-in-the-butt jeans with high-water pant legs. An old T-shirt with a faded feminist symbol–the kind no one has worn since 1972. And patent leather church shoes. I just get the awkwardness down on paper.
What I love about editing is that it’s the perfect diet. I settle in and brandish my utensils. First, I take out all the junk food words that add no nutrition for the reader. Then I add brightly colored vegetable words that catch the eye, and in the middle is a strong source of protein–an idea that deserves being chewed on for a while. I use spices, hoping to season the reader’s emotions. I go slow and serve every bite precisely. And I am never finished without a small bit of chocolate at the end. I’m dorky that way.
It takes time, but in the end, my writing is wearing a little black dress with an outlandish scarf and barn boots. Never quite in style, but quirky enough to pass.
(A little heavy-handed with the metaphor? Fair enough, even if it is my bread and butter. Oops, metaphor abuse again.)
Eight weeks since the submissions flew in all directions. (Biting my tongue here, metaphor binge avoided.)
And this week, just a short email came that a publisher is sharing my submission with “a few people.” He has the synopsis and two chapters to share, so again a tiny nibble. I am so aware of the precious time required to read a full book. I understand that with hundreds of submissions, little publishing would get done if everything was fully read. On the other hand, judgment in just two chapters?
*It won’t be long now.*
To my friends here–doing this dance of waiting and wishing in full view does feel vulnerable to me, but nothing like it will feel when the book is actually out in the world, handled by strangers who are not as kind as all of you have been. Thank you so much for waiting here with me. Your comments have been great, too.
This week’s question is this: Is there some metaphor for a diet in your life that works for you? Something that makes you more, and not less, than your very best?