Storytellersunplugged

So here’s the deal. I’m a man, and I’m giving birth in the next day or two.

For months this thing has grown inside of me, and for months I’ve massaged it with my fingertips and cooed softly to it when no one else was listening. I’ve been kept up late many nights. I’ve tried to maintain my energy, get good sleep, and do lots of stretches. At last, by this weekend, the new baby will be born, the next child in my line of the Jerusalem’s Undead Trilogy. I’ll call this child “Haunt of Jackals,” and I’ll hope and pray it survives long enough to lead a life of its own.

Without attempting in any way to diminish childbirth and the nine-month struggle involved in producing a life, I have to compare the process to writing a book. (I’d rather write the book than go through what a woman goes through, but maybe some of our female authors could give their own perspective.) The life of a novel starts with some creative spark. All odds are against its survival; yet there it is, waiting for the concept to be cultivated into something breathing and alive.

This is where things get interesting. Everyone’s got an idea; that’s the easy part–in the same way men get the easy part of conception. The idea’s the fun part, the pleasurable part. But it’s the next ninth months that involve sickness, exhaustion, a stretching beyond what seems natural, the false starts and annoying hiccups, and the final gush when you know this thing’s coming and there’s no way to hold it in.

Well, I’m at that point. It’s time to push this thing through and see it take its first gasp. I might cry with relief or excitement. My heart will surely swell with pride.

Most would-be-authors, those who email and ask me how to write a book, or tell me they have an idea that they’ll sell me–they’re often the ones caught up in the fantasy of conception. They’ve felt the pleasure of an idea and think everyone else should know. Writing a novel goes beyond the spark and the pleasure, though; it digs down deep into your gut, wraps tentacles around your spine, and demands devotion and discipline in equal measure. A book doesn’t happen by itself.

The birthing process is vital. As is the parenting process afterward. I’ll hand over my baby to my editor, and she’ll start cleaning up its dirty diapers. She’ll feed it some formula to get it strong and healthy. I’ll join in that process, and start imagining the day my child will walk out into the real world, facing critics and circumstances beyond its control. I’ll stand beside it and fight. I’ll wash behind its ears and comb its hair. I will have done everything within my limited powers to watch a healthy, mature, intelligent child take its stand in the world at large.

And then, I’ll let go.

Oh, I’ll be there to comfort and listen–don’t get me wrong. Already, though, I can feel that creative spark igniting again. In the joy of new life, I’m duped into believing I want to do this all over again. When it comes to knowing what to expect as an author, as a conceiver and parent of novels, I’m still learning more each day. I do know this, though: there will be tears and laughter, joy and pain, and every minute of it will be worth it when I watch my baby take its first steps.

I’m expecting miracles. What else?