The Case of the Missing Ponytail
It took me three years to complete a rough draft of my first novel, much of which I wrote under duress during a wicked breakup. Hot off the press, I sent the first copy to my father. {My dad has always been my writing inspiration, my biggest literary cheerleader. While I love my mom, to this day she hasn’t read the book. “I read a couple pages and keep falling asleep!” Unless I’m planning on marketing this to insomniacs, let’s hope for better reviews.}
I’ve since sent it to many other friends and it was resoundingly decided that the ending “sucked.” And there was a character no one understood. And what about that one guy in the hospital and where did he end up going?
There were holes in the plot and in this fragile time of life I wasn’t ready for criticism. My skin was thin and I just wanted everyone to tell me how I was a literary genius at the ripe age of 25! No dice.
Like everything else in life, success in writing was going to come from heaps of work and dedication. I re-read the story, made a few minor changes — insisting my ending was realistic and perfect! — and sent it off to agents far and wide. The rejection letters promptly started arriving and I cried. Oh, how I cried.
Then I found an agent who was willing to read it. Better yet, he wanted to talk about it. Bob talked for hours — two hours actually. I listened, taking detailed notes for the first hour. I cleaned the house during the second. He hated the ending too, but he loved the characters. We’d never met, he hadn’t read my blog, he didn’t know my story. Yet, as he spoke, I felt like he truly understood my vision. He knew me because he knew my art and that was a powerful feeling I’d never before experienced. It made me more optimistic and hopeful than I’d been in a long time. With a list of edits, and a much better ending, he said this could be published.
Six months later, I pulled out those notes and began the tedious process of changing significant characters and part of the plot. I am about a quarter of the way finished and I find this work exhausting in the best sense. It pushes me creatively and I look forward to the hour here and there I can grab to write, edit and read. That said, holy moly do I wish this book was ready for print. I really want to start writing the next story. I’m doubly motivated because it dawned on me this week — what if I’ve let so much time pass Bob no longer wants to help? Then what?
Oprah, now is the time to delurk.
~K