It’s a bit like birthing a child, writing your first book. Or so I’ve heard. While I can’t claim feeling physical pain as intense as childbirth, the emotional coaster I experienced seems painstakingly close. Joyful ups, gloomy lows. Plus, a protectiveness towards my manuscript grew deep inside of me. Suddenly, who was seeing it, reading it, learning it, mattered. Mattered like who my kid’s prom date was.
But, the journey was worth it. Most of the time, it is. And like those women who forget the pains of those nine months and shoot again for another, I too will remember not those devastating and heart aching memories attached with creating and shoot again for another. And another.
Say hello to my firstborn. The Missing Crimoire would love to meet you.
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