Out Into the World

I'm close to the end of this rewrite that I have been hacking away at for the past eight months. And I'm starting to feel possessive, weepy, defensive, at the thought of sending it off. I have never felt this way about any of my other novels. It's always been more of an "eh, well, Ok. You don't like it, that's fine."

I can't do that this time. Too much work. Too much emotional investment. Too many rewrites, too many critique groups attended, too much research.

Maybe that means I have a shot this time.

My plan is to finish up this draft this week. Hold off a bit until we finish moving (we're moving to Idaho this weekend! Aaaah!) And then do my line-item editing through until the end of March. Then start drafting some queries.

The thought of queries and plot summaries gives me a headache right now. So I'll just push it to the back of my mind. One bite at a time, right?

There have been so many strange coincidences that have happened during this writing process. I see them as signs.

For instance, there was the time when I had an hour to kill in Springville (daughter's dance class) So I thought I'd wander over to the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers Museum. I went up there and saw a piece of paper taped to the door that gave the hours. I was there at 3pm, and the hours stated the museum should be open 1-4. I knocked on the door, and someone answered a moment later. She let me in, saying that it was lucky she was there--they're closed every winter.

I walked in and looked around. The lady who let me in, asked me who in particular I was interested in. I told her (one name off the top of my head) Bishop Aaron Johnson.

She lead me right over to the wall where his portrait, along with those of his twelve wives hung.

She told me that she happened to be doing research on Marilla Jonhson Miller, who was Aaron Johnson's oldest daughter. She was enthusiastic, said she had a copy of the typed-out manuscript of her journals, and was I interested in seeing it.

I sat down and looked it over, and realized that a large portion of these journals were from the exact year, depicting the exact historical events that I portray in this novel.

If that's not a sign, nothing is. And there have been other things--seeing names suddenly on monuments when I wasn't looking for them. Finding just the right books. Running into perfect internet links. These people want their story told, I think. Or Heavenly Father wants it told. But who knows why? Maybe this novel is supposed to be only for my own edification. And that's fine, if that's how it turns out.

I say that, but we both know it's not true.