The past year and a half was a time of ruthless revision – polishing and compiling my work into a manuscript that I hope, in the near future, publishers everywhere will start a ferocious bidding war to acquire (ha!). It was a rough and rewarding period of self-imposed cast-iron deadlines; 3 am bursts of brilliance; innumerable hours of non-brilliance; exultant bhangras and sullen writing famine.
I emerged from the obsessive tinkering, bloody and victorious, with a tidy pile of paper with my name on it and found myself
– thumping my chest in fulsome pride a la gorilla in dominance mode.
– adopting the fetal position as the terror of completion finally hit me.
After having been elbow-deep in dismembering and putting together my work for nigh 76 weeks, I took a well-deserved break during which my Frankenstein of a manuscript developed a Poe-esque tell-tale heart: Send it out. Send it out. Send it out. Naturally, I was petrified.
I procrastinated long and hard. I hemmed and hawed. I made excuses. It is hard releasing a project you have worked on for years. The investment of time and heart in a dream gives rise to all kinds of Hydra-headed insecurities and vulnerabilities. It took a lot of stern self-talk and finger-wagging at myself but gradually, I unclenched my death-grip on the manuscript and started researching publishing agencies. As open reading periods for publishers neared, I sweated over my cover letter. I created a colour-coded submission-tracking system worthy of the nuclear arsenal of a developing country. I bolstered my ebbing courage by reading about the publishing experiences of famous authors…
Earlier this month, I sent out the manuscript for the first time.
It’s like sending your firstborn off to college. You’re hopeful and excited for them, and hope they don’t do anything to screw it up and publicly embarrass you.
More on my publishing adventures next week. Until then, wish you good writing!
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