Alone Together

Finally had a breakthrough on the proposal my agent has been tapping his foot impatiently for. I just knew it was missing something. And then, oddly enough, this somewhat neglected sentence from five paragraphs in, moved itself, in my mind, to the first sentence.

Like the breath of a ghost against an icy window, the scrawl whispered to us across the centuries.

And that was it. Moving one single sentence anchored my story, about a mysterious illuminated manuscript, and the rest just sort of scrambled into place. I reworked chapter one. Done. Inside of a half-hour. Chapter two, well underway.

And through this all, I have a writer friend who is going through a similar "tear it apart and make it something new yet still the same" process, he for a top editor at a different house than the one my proposal is being ripped apart and reassembled for.

And it's an agonizing process. We both know we're lucky. Editors liked the roots of what we had enough to aks for some changes. But ripping apart and then piecing together your work again isn't fun. He has been someone when I have truly felt like I wanted to jump out a window--or at least duct-tape Demon Baby to the wall--I've comiserated with.

But that's the odd thing about writing. It's not like when you work in an office and maybe five of you work on some hellish project, you all go to Happy Hour together and rejoice when it's done. We're alone. Together.

I think that's why I have this blog. I spend nearly all my time alone, except for Demon. Three kids in school, one with a job four nights a week plus orchestra rehearsals. One in music lessons. The other in martial arts training. Pretty much, I'm alone. Except for the little Poster Child for Hellions, and I struggle through my writing alone. I have my critique group once every two weeks . . . but that's only twice a month. I can't EVER discuss my writing with the Jacka** I live with (at least that's what I'm calling him today, when I came home to a trashed house and piles of laundry and unfed children when I have a house full of company arriving tomorrow). He doesn't write and will never, ever understand the process. I don't think he's even remotely interested in my process. Hell, I don't even understand the process. IS it even a process? A process sounds like something orderly. Something with a beginning and a middle and an end. Then how do I explain walking through a fabric store looking at patterns with my Baby Girl whose obsession with being a fashion designer is in full swing thanks to Santa giving her a sewing machine (and did I mention I cannot sew? This will be interesting as I try to learn a bobbin from a button-hole thingy); Yes, walking along looking at gingham plaid . . . and a sentence decides to move itself.

I know I'm not alone. Not really. We're in this alone together. Right?