latest on the writing life

So, as some of you already know, I finished the second draft of my novel a couple of weeks ago. HUZZAH!!! Currently, my mom is in possession of the only hard copy. Since she is English Teacher and Proofreader Extraordinaire--and also recently re-retired and having more time on her hands (when, that is, she's not dealing with house-building issues, which is Another Story And Shall Be Told Another Time)--I asked her to be my beta reader for the second draft.

What is a beta reader, you might ask? (Or not, as the case might be, but I'm going to tell you anyway.) A beta reader is something of a proofreader--but beta reading goes much further than simply noting typos or punctuation and spelling errors. A beta also checks characterization and story development, looks for plot holes, finds the Places Where This Just Doesn't Read Right, and generally tries to give honest feedback on how the story reads to a reader.

The recipient of said feedback is, of course, the alpha, i.e. the writer of said story--in this case, Yours Writerly. ;o)

I had a non-mom beta reader for my first draft, and I will admit that I was on pins and needles the whole time he had the manuscript. It was like letting a non-parent hold your newborn baby for the first time. I survived the experience but was quite hard-pressed not to pester the beta with continual questions such as "What chapter are you on?"--"What do you think so far?"--"Does Event X fit in well with Subplot L?"--"How does the fifth paragraph on page 124 read to you?"--and so forth. Though I resisted temptation to plague the beta with my questions, I do believe I still made a nuisance of myself.

Believe it or not, this time it's worse.

The baby isn't a baby anymore. Draft Two is just past the toddler stage, moving fairly well on its own, yet still occasionally head-bumping into the edges of tables and open drawers. I can let it out of my sight for a moment or two, yes--but it's just independent enough to wreak havoc in the livingroom while my back is turned. And when it falls down and bonks its noggin, it still needs me to pick it up, cuddle it, and tell it that everything's going to be okay--see? we'll just scrape off this unnecessary dangling participle right here, and you'll be good as new, shhhh, don't cry. And it looks up at me and says "I love you" with those big, beautiful, well-dialogued and character-driven eyes, and my heart melts.

And what have I done? I've sent that beautiful, growing-up little one off to grandma's house for the next month or so.

You parents out there can appreciate my agony. ;o)

I have to resist calling multiple times per day. "Is it okay? Is it eating well? Is it reading well? Does this changed plot line work? Does that character makesensenow? And haveIdoneahideousthinginlettingmychildoutofsightandoutofhouse and howmuchlongercanItakethis???????????"

I want my kid back!!!!! It's not safe with anyone but me!!!!!!

It has nothing to do with the fact that my mom is the one who has my kid in her keeping. I'd feel this way about any beta reader at this point. (I'm finding, also, that I'm leaning more toward calling her the "gamma" reader, since she's the third....)

It's not even that I feel driven to work on the story right now or anything like that. I just feel very protective, very vulnerable, and very jealous that anyone else is getting a look at the product of my creative psyche's inner workings. And yet, at the same time, I'm excited, rejoicing-y, and very much looking forward to discussing the story with my "gamma" reader when she's finished. It's a nutty dichotomy, and I suppose it's pretty much the way a writer's life always goes.

Oh chocolate mousse custard. If it's bad now, with the second draft, how much worse is it going to be with the third? And the possible fourth?

I guess that when I finally do send the manuscript to an agent, I'll be pretty much catatonic. Consider yourselves forewarned. ;o)

One more thing on writing-life current events: In November, I was focused on NaNoWriMo. In December, I was focused on finishing the second draft of my novel. Last week, after it was all over and the kid was well on its way to grandma's house, I told Ed that I felt as though I were waking up from a particularly pleasant dream.

"I've been a little obsessive, haven't I?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, then shrugged. "But you're a writer. You kind of have to be."

That felt good.

I love my husband. He gets it. :o)