A lifetime ago, I took one year off
from teaching to play the role of homeroom mother—and to research and write a
novel. I spent months hauling books to and from the library as I researched the
setting for my story. Hour after hour, I took notes on the histories, cultures,
religions and languages of my fictional characters. Eventually, I merged all of
those notes into a plot. During the nine months of that long ago school year, I
gave birth to characters and watched them grow and develop.
When summer shifted into fall, I
boxed the first draft of my novel and tucked it away on the corner of a
footlocker. Its visibility often nagged at me to delve back into the pages and
visit with my friends, but work and responsibilities made it easy for me to
ignore my creation. During the next year, the box changed locations several
times, and eventually I secured it on a shelf in my closet. I could still see
it there, begging for me to return for a weekend or a holiday, but I ignored
its pleas. Over the years, the box became buried under shoeboxes and bags
filled with crafts I’ve started but never finished. It collected dust in my
mind. Frankly, I totally forgot about it.
Before we moved Mom in with us, I
did a major overhaul of all of our closets. We were, after all, combining two
households into one. I uncovered the novel one day and spent a couple of evenings
rereading the yellowed manuscript. The 3.5 floppy disks tucked into the box
reminded me that I’d written these words long ago.
Resolutely, I began to revise and rewrite
my story. I double checked all of that long ago research, this time in the
comfort of my home using the miraculous Internet. I layered my more mature
writing style into the book, but basically didn’t change the original structure
of the plot, the color of the characters.
My resolution to seek an agent
faltered when Mom moved into our home, and I realized the amount of care she
needed wouldn’t allow me the luxury of revisions or rewrites if my novel found
a home. This time, though, I didn’t box my work away. Instead, I purchased a
new, white three-ringed binder. This time, I kept my handiwork nearby for quick
reads and editing. I even asked a friend to read and critique it.
When Mom died, I moved the binder
into my desk drawer and headed back into the classroom to clear my head of
grief. This summer, one project after another seemed to demand my attention,
and I avoided glancing at my neglected volume by shoving calendars and journals
on top of it.
A few weeks ago, I pledged to return
to the path I started a lifetime ago. I Google searched for possible literary
agents. I decided on a company and agent to approach, and I began the process
of writing a query letter, and a synopsis, and selecting my best three chapters.
Yesterday, I sent this story, first
dreamed of a lifetime ago, off to an agent. I won’t get a response for three to
six months, and I know the answer will read something like “Thank you, but . .
.” However, that’s okay because I’ve accomplished such a major goal. I’ve taken a
single idea, developed it into a wonderful story peopled with interesting
characters. Even if it’s taken me years, I’ve wound my way through the long and
convoluted writing process all the way to the final step.
And today? I think I’ll start
another novel because one’s been floating around in the background for a while.
This time, I have no other responsibilities than seeing to the needs to these
new characters as I give them lives, so maybe it won’t take another
lifetime.
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
