This Saturday past, I gave birth. To a beautiful, bouncing baby. Well, okay, to a short story. And not perhaps so beautiful to others as to me, but I am a proud parent. It weighed in at a shade under 10k, a fairly healthy figure for a short story, I’m sure you’ll agree.
The various musings that crystallised to form this sweet child of mine can be traced, some of them as far back as a year ago, but most to blog posts in May and June this year. Indeed, the point of conception was fairly late in June.
The gestation… well, is there anything quite like the act of creation? Your whole being, it seems, is focused on the entity you carry inside you. You glow as it develops, and your emotions swing wildly as its plot takes form. Bringing it to term, delivering it, is an act of love.
And then, that moment when you hold it in your hands, complete and finished, and know that it can no longer be entirely yours, that you have to send it out into the world, to sink or swim on its own merits, with you cheering it on from the sidelines…
I’m depressed now. I miss the roller coaster.