Exactly one year ago this week an acquisitions editor contacted me and asked me to send her ideas for a book. She liked the ideas I sent, so three months later I sent her a proposal and three weeks after that, they offered me a contract to publish a book in August of 2019.

I already have a full-time job as a mom to three kids, age five and under, and they are not the Angelic-Sit-and-Color-type of children. So I’ve written this book in every sliver and crack of time I have. I’ve edited at red lights and waiting in drive-thru lines at Taco Bell. I’ve woken up at 4 am some weeks and at 5 am on all the other weeks. I’ve paid someone to clean half my house every-other week and neglected cleaning the other half. My kids have eaten way too many frozen pizzas and watched three times the amount of T.V. they usually watch.

At times the Book felt like a third person in our marriage and at the very least it has made for some extremely predictable date night conversations. I’ve sacrificed money, other writing opportunities, time with my family and time with God. My insomnia has gotten worse.

This week my daughter asked why I have to work on my book all the time. I’ve been asking myself that same question.

Why write a book? Is it worth it?

I’m sure we all have our own reasons why we write, but I wrote this book because I had something to say and someone invited me to say it. I wrote so my babies could hold a piece of my story in their small hands and one day know their mama better. (It’s hard to resist the immortalizing promises of publishing–whether true or not.) And I wrote because to ignore the compulsion felt like tricking gravity, fighting a fierce wind, or letting fear win. And I wrote because this book offered me the privilege of being its messenger. And I said yes.

But the demons have been alive and well:

“Who do you think you are to write a book?”

“No one’s going to buy it.”

“If they do buy it, they’re not going to read it.”

“Okay, if they do buy and read it, they’re not going to understand it. They’re going to think you’re navel-gazing. They’re going to hate it…”

“Wait, people are going to actually READ this soul-spill that I wrote???”

My husband helps me slay the demons when I’m too weak to muster healthy self-talk, prayer or even logic. He is the only reason a word of this book will be in print. He has read every single page. Twice. If people hate it, I will hold him solely responsible.

As I made the final edits of my manuscript this past week, I felt like I was losing control. The massive ship I created from sketch to structure was leaving the shore. Without me. It didn’t need me any more. The final paint touch-ups, equipment checks and emergency drills have to stop. I’d have to let her go.

On Thursday I emailed and mailed the manuscript to five friends. I wondered if I’d feel more worried once she was out in the world without me to defend, edit or revise her. Instead, I slept more peacefully than I have in months. I felt like I handed over the burden for some other people to carry for a stint. They can sail around on her and put post-it notes on the walls that need a different color paint job, or jot down the places on deck that could use some reinforcements.

I feel a strange tranquility in the not knowing, the not controlling, the not even seeing how she is received. It’s time to release this ship. We’ll see where she sails without me guiding her any longer.

Whether it’s brilliant or boring, misunderstood or celebrated, timeless or short-lived, my job was to approach the page with my whole self, and offer what I had at that moment. And I did that. I wrote the book. And now I have to let her go.

Photo by Peter Clarkson on Unsplash

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