Birth Pangs of a Novel

I had almost forgotten what it felt like giving birth to our sons!

I remember thinking 'never again' as my whole being was consumed by the urgency and pain of the delivery, yet unmistakably the pain and intense joy was here again, my first novel was complete. The excitement and relief was comparable to producing our first baby. I wanted to shout to the world "I've done it" I had undertaken the huge task of writing a book, motivated, but not realising the challenge ahead. The analogy between novel and child wasn't limited, it was full of similarities, imitating the process of conception and birth.

The seed of my initial idea for the story arrived without fanfare or preplanning, embedding itself without resistance. The foetus silently grew in its embryonic state, growing features, limbs and functions over the months. I allowed it time and space to develop. Random thoughts appeared from unknown sources within, waking me in the night demanding attention. "Not again," my tired body cried, but the thoughts took over. Those cold hours awake so reminiscent of numerous times spent alone with my baby bump.

Characters to my surprise changed, demanding their own way and flavour. "I want it my way, I'm not like that!" If I had aims and aspirations for their development, I found myself adjusting to their dictates rather than directing the way ahead. Flutterings of inspirations moved within me as with the early movements of an infant, insisting that I paid attention at all times of the day or night. The brain child expanded to become a second entity within one body. A common secret shared between two identities took root.

The struggle to balance time and energy was futile, as with the rearing and sustenance of any infant. Its dependence upon you is paramount. In my wildest dreams I couldn't have imagined that the nurturing of ideas and words took so much time to gestate. I willingly accepted the task to produce my brain child, though foolishly disregarding the work load.

The day arrived, and the last words gleamed back at me. THE END, two words I didn't think I would ever reach.  I stared at the finished page, scrutinising it like a real child when you hold its form in your arms. Is it whole? Can it function? Is it perfect? A sense of a new beginning beckons. It is no longer exclusively yours, but to be shared with the outside world.

It needs to be cleaned up, examined by professionals for its health, made presentable for all to see. Just as with any offspring, it is natural to want to protect and shelter it from disapproval or rejection. Beautiful through our 'rose-coloured lenses' we need it to be loved and accepted. Common sense prevails, and gradually we see and accept its place in the myriad of average contemporaries. It must go forward to be proof read, edited and reworked to reach its potential. Only then can it graduate, be recognised and reach the  'dizzy' heights of publication.

The brainchild of your imagination has survived the months of gestation and growth. It has fought through the struggles and turmoil of self doubt, emerging naively to face its critics.

Will it survive to sit alongside thousands of its peers? Who cares? I only know the pleasure the process has given to me, to someone well past the age of giving birth, but who will not forget both amazing experiences.

by M. S. Thornber