I just finished the last revision of my new novel, Always Afraid: Love Stories. There is a sense of accomplishment because I think I did the story justice and I enjoyed writing it. Yet, there is also a sense of loss. The creative journey is over and the product is right there in front of me, and that's good. Still, a bit of sadness.
Some have compared that feeling with postpartum depression that plagues women giving birth to a child after nine months of carrying that baby inside their body. I see the connection in that I carried the novel in my head for a couple of years before slowly birthing it. Other than a nice glass of wine (which really helps the transition), there are no drugs to soften the sadness. Of course, being in a supportive writers group helps allay the fears that James Lee Burke calls "corrosive self-doubt" that plague all writers, even a genius like Burke. My group calls itself "The Write Minds," and they participated in the critiquing and supporting work of bringing the novel to its finish. They are a blessing.
Now begins the lengthy process of trying to find an agent to take me on, which could take up to a year or two. It is mind-deadening, repetitive, and mostly futile, but it might pay off. Two writers just published said they sent out roughly one hundred queries each. One might say that kind of tenacity is admirable. I do not look forward to the process. In the meantime, I think I'll have another glass of wine. Pinot Grigio works.
