I realized this today. I can’t remember what triggered the thought, but I started thinking about how I kept putting off submitting Rook to agents even though it’s in a pretty good place. I keep coming up with excuses, telling myself it needs more revising, more fixing.
It’s much safer to live in obscurity, to have only a few friends and family read your work and tell you how nice it was. It’s downright terrifying to think of a whole bunch of strangers reading it. They will see my precious stories without any rose-colored glasses and read them exactly as they are, and my books will have to stand on their own. They’ll be subjected to criticism (and rightly so), personal biases, individual tastes, and mountains of opinions if they get into enough hands.
Isn’t that the goal, though? I thought I knew that for the longest time, I thought I was prepared in every way a person can be. I thought I was ready to send my baby out into the world, armed with a full lunchbox and change of pants, just in case.
Now, I feel more like I’ve got my toddler on rapidly fraying leash and I’m just praying I can keep them from killing themselves by running out into traffic to follow an errant family of ducks.
Enough personifying my stories. The point is, I’m ready to let them go. Acknowledging my fear was the first step, now I’m setting deadlines. Rook is going to agents by the end of February. It’s time.
Wish me luck?