Revisited

Due to surprising, exciting, and hopeful circumstances, I've been editing and formatting my first novel again.

Recently, I put it away. The hard copy got stashed in the attic; on a shelf that lurches out over the stairs, so either way, the damn thing is always over my head. I archived all the digital copies, and I stopped querying, trying to focus on new projects. 

I had to take a break from my novel because I poured every single bit of myself into those 300+ pages. My entire heart, my soul, my beliefs, my dreams...there was nothing left, in a good way. I was proud for so many reasons, one of which was because I am a self-loathing, terrified of attention and heartache, recluse, who 'didnt write anymore.' 

When I set out to query, each 'no' felt like a meat cleaver to the heart in my open and profusely bleeding chest cavity. After 9 months of queries and non existent mental health, I walked away. 

As I've taken it back out, I just want to cry. I love this book. My labor of love, my passion project, my daring to take up space and reclaim myself and my identity, book. 

I feel like I'm poking dirty fingers into a poorly sewn gash. I feel sad at the rejection. Embarrassed by the entire process. Proud. Angry. Regretful. 

I feel like I've never belonged; like no one has ever understood me, like there has never been a place for me. And now I carry 300+ pages to remind myself. 

But still, I carry on. I believe in this damn book so much. 

It feels like no one will want it; it's politically charged, the protagonist swears, it goes there. But I can't give up hope. Foolish or not, the hope is sort of all I have. Plus anxiety.

Sally forth.