I often refer to my novel as “my baby” and I know this is a tiny bit weird. But, being a writer, I really could not care less if I’m weird.
Still, I think I have a valid point when I call my novel a baby, as…
“Writing a Child”
It changes each chapter
and brings me to tears,
Especially now as it
becomes a two-year
old- it calls and it cries
for it’s always in need
to stuff it’s word-count
with research as feed.
Such tender affection
to nurture its plot;
for I joy when I’m writing
and guilt when I’m not.
It’s silly and moody
and can’t make up its mind
if it wants to be three books
or five of a kind.
I yearn for a day when
it’s finally grown
and publishing rights
are all of it I’ll own-
but then will I miss it?
A mother no more?
Or is being an author
much, much better for
My sleep-schedule, diet,
mental sanity…
Or will I be pacing
ever constantly
awaiting the critics
and readers reviews…
Oh! Poor baby novel,
how can I leave you?
I must make you stronger
to stand on the shelves
amidst the great classics
who fend for themselves.
My troublesome infant,
mind-born and ink-bred
please, please obey me,
as when sprung from my head-
for then you were simple
and naked and pure
and how to raise you
I felt so very sure…
Yet still I am patient
and faithful to thee
and will guide you until
in covers neatly,
we’ll bind up and copy-
swaddle and send you
to share your small story
with those we pray who
will adopt, read, and love
‘midst this wide-worded world
the novel in labor,
I’ve finally unfurled.
