On Revision

I am writing this after receiving edits on what might be my third book. As with the first two, the comments will take a while to sink in. I am a writer who knows she is a writer just as she knows she is a mother. I do not suffer imposter syndrome. But, like motherhood, I always wonder if I’m doing writing well.

Like the other day Hadley left the house for a party in a “shacket,” sweatpants, and moccasins. I come from the fluorescent 80s and the grunge 90s so I’m not here to judge, HOWEVER what I did not see was that the shacket was open and Hadley was wearing what I can only call a glorified sports bra. I saw the full reveal about an hour later when I joined her at the party. 

This is what I mean when I tell you that manuscript edits take time to sink in. I thought I was being real. I truly tried my best. I mean, OK, so maybe I switched verb tenses and used the wrong “your,” but this – (insert very big revision situation) – how did I not see the very white sports bra that I’m not even sure is for sports?

When you’re a writer as you know you’re a mother, giving up – stopping – is not an option. So I’m here, letting it all sink in: the comments, the questions, the ache, the shimmer, the teenage girl with her father’s eyes and dark eyelashes, the 19 chapters – both waiting to see how I’ll move forward.

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The day after I received book edits, there was a snowstorm. Hadley texted me around 11 in the morning to say she was being let out early because the roads would be too dangerous to drive on at 3:30. 

 “Virtual school tomorrow,” she texted with several sad face emojis following her words. 

There will be a time when snow days come again, but it won’t be this year, I thought as I pulled two frozen bananas from the freezer. Hadley loves banana bread. 

 I can’t do much of anything about the pandemic or Covid. I am quite certain I have no say in what Hadley wears, and I know better than to think a manuscript would not have to be severely reckoned with after a first attempt (or a second, or a third….).

I never question whether I am living, or a mother, or a writer. I question how I want to live in this world, and what kind of mother I want to be. The same is true for writing. It’s always been how I will do this; not if I can. 

Of course banana bread is not the answer, but it will fill my home with the sweetness of cinnamon and vanilla, the tang of yogurt and bourbon, the heft of banana and flour. While it bakes, I can print out the story I’ve been working on for a few years, the one that won’t let me go, and I can open myself to what it needs to be set free.

 Because the slider door will open soon, and Hadley will step inside. She will smell the bread and sigh, “Thank you, Mom.”

“Make some hot chocolate,” I’ll say, sliding away from the story and stepping into the kitchen. “I’ll foam milk.”