Writing a novel is like raising a child. If you’re a first-time parent, you haven’t got a clue as to what you’re getting yourself into. Seasoned writers, and parents, might caution, You may want to rethink this profession. And even seasoned parents (writers) greet each new child (project) with hope. It’s fun, it’s exciting, it’s new, it’s even—relatively—easy at the start. 

You’ve got to feed them, change them, make sure they sleep. Come up with an idea, a likable protagonist, and give them something to do. Beginning, middle, and end—you think, I’ve got this. And you do, for a while. Then they get into some trouble, and you have to somehow figure a way out because they are, after all, your creation. This happens again.

And again.

And again.

Until at one point, you stand back and realize with enormous relief that they are happy, healthy, whole, and complete. And then this happens: some unschooled fool questions your parenting (writing) skills and the notion seems impossible to you. What do you mean he’s not perfect? 

Teenagers are like revision. Are you kidding me? After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? You feel at times like gutting them and starting completely over.

But, because you’re already in so deep, you can’t bear to give up on the project you’ve sacrificed so much of your time, and your whole heart, to. You read a few books—twenty, thirty books—you rethink the way you’ve been doing things all along. You revise. 

Again.

And again.

And eventually you’ve done the best that you can do and maybe others still don’t see the potential of the end product, but you do. You know they’re something spectacular and whether the world knows it or not . . . shouldn’t matter. 

Of course then comes the momentary lapse in judgment, a good cry, and nine months later you begin again with the next child (book). 

And life is never better.