Weeding My Words

We’ve gotten a lot of rain in the Midwest these past several weeks. So much so, that I haven’t been able to tend to our vegetable garden I so excitedly plotted out and planted almost three months ago.

Or, at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself: It’s too muddy. Too buggy. Too hot. Man, has it been hot!!

I’m fair-skinned and freckled, and, in this humid, 95-degree weather, I burn! I melt!

But maybe it’s just that I got overwhelmed, as I do with my writing. I plan and dream with the best of intentions, planting the seeds for a fruitful harvest down the road. Then I see the weeds.

Small, at first. Easy to deal with. Then I get busy, distracted...and I don’t go out there for days. Then a week. Two weeks. By then, the vegetables are overrun with weeds. 

I finished the first draft of my novel for my MFA thesis last May (2024). It felt like such an accomplishment! Two years of intense reading and researching, meeting writing deadlines, combatting feelings of not being good enough. Hiding away from my family on nights and weekends. Telling my kids "a few more minutes" just to finally pry myself away from the computer much later...and find them already asleep. More times than I'd like to admit.

On top of that, my full-time teaching career is fulfilling but leaves me drained of energy and creativity.

But I’d been dreaming up this fantasy world for almost eight years by the time I was accepted into the program. This was my chance to finally do something with it.

It felt great! People asked about my MFA. I told them about my novel, and they were excited for me. They asked about my progress during the program. And when I finished my MFA 48 credit hours later, I announced it. Proclaimed my novel was finished.

Naturally, people asked when it would be published. Whether they'd see it on shelves soon.

Now, I already knew the odds of being traditionally published were slim for a debut author with how many fantasy novels are saturating the market. But I didn’t realize how long it would take just to feel ready enough to query agents.

I started pitching this past April. Actually, I first pitched last June (complements of the MFA program at SNHU for their new graduates). One rejection, and one partial request. How exciting!

The agent ended up passing; it wasn’t what she was looking for. I didn’t let it get me down, though. Statistically, I should expect at least a hundred or more rejections before I might get accepted for representation. Right?

I stepped away from my novel for a few weeks. A month. Two months…it turned into six months. Not completely, I should say. I printed it and went through, changing words, cutting words.

But I wasn’t looking at the whole picture yet. I wasn’t ready. I was exhausted.

Finally, I got back to it. Searching for the seeds I’d planted all those years ago. Having to search through the weeds and mud and spiders--oh man, the SPIDERS!

In novel terms, I guess this would be the hundreds of pages of notes, research, and outlines...and the imposter syndrome. The second guessing. Devouring others’ writing for inspiration and being so intimidated that I’m paralyzed. Overwhelmed. 

My writing will never be that good. 

Or, I’ve got SO many ideas for my series that I don’t know how I’ll ever finish. My characters have so much left to share, to do, to live out…can I do it justice? Will my vegetables grow into something people will actually consume? Or will it just be my close friends and family who will be there to eat it?

But some of my family and friends don’t like tomatoes. Or kale. It’s not their style. So they won't even enjoy my garden--er, book--when it's done.

Ok, the garden metaphor might be getting weird now.

One thing I realized today in the garden, though…through the mud, the sweat, the bugs, the heat, the sunburn. I can’t go so long without tending to it. It will be so much more manageable if I go out every day.

Because even if it doesn’t seem like it’s making a big difference, in the long run, those little visits every day means I don’t get so lost in the weeds of my words.