My daughter turns two years old today. Even though so much time has gone by, I still remember the day she came into the world as though it happened only yesterday. The birth of a child should be one of the happiest memories of your life, and that was marred for me in the biggest way. Her birth was filled with complications that damn near killed me more than once. But the joy of holding her for the first time outweighs it all.
She was beautiful, still is, will always be. Her eyes were bright violet. I’ve never seen eyes that purple without contact help. I almost changed her name because of those eyes. She was healthy and aware from the moment she was born. When I say aware, I mean aware. Most infants don’t get that look of knowing whats going on until they are weeks old. My daughter knew right away.
After that first time I held her, everything else is muddled from blood lose, infection, and my body shutting down one organ at a time. But she was healthy, perfect. She didn’t even have that tall tell cone head, she was born too fast for her head to mold that way.
You might be wondering how this pertains to writing, since this is a writers blog. And I’ll tell you.
I’ve given birth and brought to life novels, and they have more in common then just keeping you up at night.
You labor for months and sometime years to write a novel. You put your sweat, tears, blood, hopes and dreams into the writing. You watch it grow and your heart swells. Then, as when it’s time for your children to go to school, you put your book in the hands of others and trust them to help you mold your novel into something you could really be proud of. And when that’s happened, you send it out into the world, knowing you’ve done your best.