The Cliff

Turns out, I’m a little hard on myself.

Brutal was the word a dear friend used to describe my inner dialogue.

I’m hard on everyone else too.

I got my novel back from the editor this week. I might’ve mentioned it once or a dozen times. This isn’t my first book. It’s actually my third completed novel (fourth if you count the ghost story I finished in a red notebook in middle school), but the first I spent years whittling down, sending to betas, whittling again, then hiring a professional to dissect with a fine-toothed comb. To this point, this is the biggest, most important step I’ve ever taken.

The feeling of being “gutted” I mentioned when I got my marked-up manuscript back had less to do with the actual gutting of my book (the edits were valid and thorough and are helping me see the story with fresh eyes) and more to do with running toward the edge of a cliff, jumping off, and finding no one at the bottom to catch me.

We are born alone—usually. We die alone. And we jump off that proverbial cliff into our wildest dreams alone, and either we hit that bottom like Wile E. Coyote or we figure out how the fuck to fly. **Apologies to my editor for using the “F” word yet again!** And we do all of these things regardless of how many—or how few—people are there to witness them.

Though the chasm below the cliff was empty when I took this first major leap, there was a man waiting on the other side, his arms open with pride in his eyes, and a little blonde boy riding atop his shoulders, waiting to give me a hug and remind me that I have all that I already need at home.

 definitely not the highlight reel

This week I got the manuscript that I’ve been working on since 2016 back from my editor and I’m absolutely gutted.

Eight years of work, and a sequel in the balance, and I’m raw and afraid and questioning everything and want to quit.

Not just because of the mountain of work ahead of me, but because it doesn’t seem to matter.

I feel like a little kid again, wanting to be held.

I feel like the little girl with her spiral notebook writing stories that no one is interested in.

I feel like a 4yo girl butting heads with my 4yo son, wondering who is going to hold me when he wants a hug.

Because I am that little girl this week. The one that didn’t feel loved enough. That didn’t feel wanted. That got so good at hiding she became invisible. That was never, ever good enough.

Like that little girl that I never really left behind, I feel unsupported.

Unimportant.

Unseen.

Alone.

I guess when you build yourself a fortress on an island and decide to live there, you shouldn’t be surprised when no one shows up. I thought I lowered a drawbridge.

Maybe not soon enough.