Lately I've noticed that I've been a little reluctant about writing. Seems odd, given that I'm so close to the end. Usually vaulting over that three-quarters hump gives me enough momentum to finish a piece, even a longer one. Today, anything looks more appealing. Washing dishes sounds like fun. Scooping dog crap in the front yard? Sure. Finally opening the last of my moving boxes no longer sounds like purgatory.
I think it's because somewhere deep in the vault of my subconscious, I'm getting nervous about letting other people see it. What will they think? Publishers. Agents. Critics. The more logical side of my brain tells me that rejection is part of this career path--just deal with it. But the more emotional side wants me to lock the manuscript in my closet before it's too late.
Part of making something--anything really--are the rose-colored glasses we see it through after it's all done. We see it as perfect. Beautiful. A triumph of its form, and we're immediately shocked when the next person says, "I didn't get the part where the goat ate the sandwich." And you try to explain that it's a delicate criticism of the modern legal system, but that theoretical reader never sees it the way you do. They aren't wearing rose-colored glasses like you.
I have to remember that some people are going to hate it. And it's going to hurt. It's only human to fear pain, after all. But also, some people are going to love it. Maybe not as much as me, but they'll love it enough to read it. And that's really what I want.
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