After putting it off for the first seven months of the year, I finally finished revising my novel. Now, to send it out. Again.
Time to face rejection again, or at least its possibility. I know I write decently, but it's not a book of great moment or even a charming cozy. It's a silly vampire story I started before the market began drowning in vampire stories. It's not a mystery or a paranormal romance. No sparkling, brooding hunks, no sophisticated femme fatales.
How can I possibly sell this?
I've wanted to be an author since at least fifth grade. Before then, even, but that was when I was first asked in class and the words came to my lips. To give myself credit, I said 'science fiction writer', not 'the next Faulkner' (yecch). Vampire astronomer probably isn't that far off the mark.
The anxiety is horrible to endure, though, as is the pain of rejection. I shouldn't be surprised at how long it took me to revise, considering what I have to face. My baby is funny-looking and has fangs. Maybe only a mother can love it.
But, like a parent, I must send it into the world. This is the proper endpoint of parenthood.