I’ve never been the kind of writer who thinks of her work as a baby.

The analogy has been used so many times, I’m kind of over it. So, I struggled to figure out a more fitting one. Something that better exemplified my writing life.

I found it yesterday on the play ground of my kids’ school.

We’re new to the school thing. I homeschooled my three last year in hopes of getting into a charter school. And we did get in. I’ll tell you what, that lottery thing is killer to those leaning on the edge of panic like me.

And, yesterday, we went to meet the teachers and have a popsicle (even though the August morning was a bit too chilly for icy treats).

It hit me. This is the first of me really letting them go.

I’ve been with these three pretty much non-stop, without a break for half a decade. I’ve taught them how to hold their spoons, to use their manners, the importance of the potty (we’re still working on closing the door, apparently).

I’ve gone over and over and over all the skills and values and ideas with them that our family holds dear. Sometimes daily. Other times hourly.

And in a few weeks, I’m letting go. Well, a little.

They will have other influences in their lives. Teachers, friends. People who will teach them other things. New things. And old things in fresh ways. They will grow. They might have some bad days. They’ll definitely have some wonderful days. People might criticize my parenting. Other kids might not like mine. I know that a few will. They’ll make new friends. They’ll be loved by their teachers.

Without a doubt, I’ll have a lot of growing to do as a parent.

If that isn’t a larger scale of how I feel about my novels, then I can’t come up with a better one.

I work and work and work on the thing. Day after day. Then, I let it go. Give it to my editor. And it grows and expands. I have a lot of growing to do as a writer.

And some people won’t like it. They’ll find reasons for their aversion. They’ll (ack) write a review saying what they didn’t like. And it will hurt when people I know say those things.

But others might like it. They’ll say nice things.

Fortunately, though, at the end of the day, both the kids and the novel are mine. Really. They came from me.

And, fortunately, I understand that regardless of what people say about my kids and my novels, they are what the Lord has given me. My job as Mom and novelist are part of my bigger calling. And if God is for those two ministries, who can be against them?

It still tugs a few tears from me when I think of letting them go.

Especially the kids. The novel is just paper.

Today, my friend Patt would have turned 71. Today, I edit a scene that reminds me a whole lot of her. 

Today, I’d like to share with you a little post I wrote a few years ago. 

I miss my friend. My mentor. My sister in Christ. 

My dear friend Patt was dying.

For years, she’d suffered falls and strokes and heart problems. More than that, even. Too much. Joy-grief filled my confused heart and I begged God to be gentle and kind. Especially for her family’s sake.

I first met her years before. My friend Tim, her youngest son, introduced me to her. He told me that I would love her. And he, of course, was right. She checked up on me, sent me letters and cards. Being new to town and to that church, she took me right under her warm wing. Sometimes I called her my Grand Rapids Mom.

Of all the people who heard news about me, Patt was one of the first. When I got engaged. Pregnant. My ups. My downs. Even in the ICU, she wanted to know about me.

“Susie Finkbeiner,” she said when I visited one day. “Twins? How wonderful!”

Miss Patt called my daughter ‘Pickle’, our nickname for her when I was pregnant. She gave her pickle ornaments. For a three year old, that’s pretty special.

And I’d have to tell my little girl that Miss Patt was dying. My heart swelled with grief.

“Honey, we need to pray for Miss Patt,” I said as I tucked her into bed. “She’s really sick, remember?”

“Yes. And we pray that she gets better,” my daughter said.

I pushed the hair out of her eyes. “How about we say ‘thank you’ to God for the time we’ve had with Miss Patt.”

“Okay,” she said. “Dear God, thank you for Miss Patt. Make her better. In Jesus’ Name we pray, Amen.”

I let my little girl see the tears in my eyes. She needed to see that I was sad.

“Miss Patt is going to get better,” she said. “We prayed.”

I kissed my daughter. Sang a song with her about trusting the Lord. About not leaning on our own understanding. Turned off the light. Sat in the living room and cried.

If Patt had gotten better, if she’d survived yet again, she would just be in pain. More and more pain.

Going to sleep that night, I prayed frustrated words. I didn’t know what to pray, really. And I knew that was all right.

The next morning I got the news that Patt had died. I felt sick. Grieved for my friends who had just lost their mom. Too soon. Tragically. Then I mourned that I would have to tell my daughter that her prayer hadn’t been answered. That Miss Patt hadn’t gotten better.

“Hey, I have to tell you something,” I said, pulling her onto my lap. “Remember how we prayed for Miss Patt last night?”

She nodded her head. Smiled with her whole face.

“Well, honey,” I said. “Miss Patt died.”

My daughter gasped. Put her little hands over her mouth. My heart ached for her. This was the first loss she’d really understand.

“Mama,” she said. “My prayer worked. God did it. He made Miss Patt better!”

Today, I remember that Patt’s better. No more pain. No more ICU. No more being hooked up to beeping, whining machines. And, although she’s been gone for a few years now, I still miss her. 

She was a good friend. My friend Patt.

Just in case you missed the mega news from yesterday…

My second novel, MY MOTHER’S CHAMOMILE releases as an ebook, January, 2014 and a few months after as a paperback!

I’m thrilled. And busy getting it all together.

You wanna see a picture of me signing the contract?

I’m so excited! And so thankful to the folks at WhiteFire Publishing. They are a talented group. It’s an honor to work with them again!

Yesterday, I broke some thingy-ma-jobber on my mini van. I was on my way to band practice at church.

Needless to say, I didn’t quite make it.

Instead, I sat in the parking lot of a very posh gas station, looking at fluid drip from behind my tire.

Sitting in a black mini-van in the middle of a heat wave wasn’t an option. I needed to go inside to wait for my husband to rescue me (for the kazillionth time…he’s so good). I bought a way-too-sweet raspberry iced tea and sat, sulking, in the Subway dining room.

I had nothing to do but think.

To be completely honest with you, I’m stressed out. Uptight. At the edge of a place called “Burn Out”. Yup. I’m teetering there.

And with only 13 days until D-Day (ahem…deadline day).

I’m also feeling pretty discouraged. It feels like every time I get knocked over and am able to rally, something else comes along to push me down again. Over and over. Nothing huge. Just little things that add up to a lot of face planting.

But this is what I signed up for.

Really. I did.

Deadlines are a part of the publishing world. I’m thankful for the deadline. It means I have an interested publisher. That’s a good thing. Plus, a little fire under the tuchus never hurt anybody…well…I don’t think so, at least.

But the discouragement. The criticism that is just hard to swallow. Reviews that put a huge rock in the stomach. Someone looking at your work and deeming it “eh”? Oh. That stings.

But I’ve never been naive enough to think that my work would be immune from critique. And, really, it’s not as bad as I’d expected. Most days, at least.

(Side Note: Friends, can we talk? If you don’t like a book…any book…please remember to be kind when  you review or rate it. Just consider how it would feel to have someone looking over your shoulder, pointing out your every flaw while you tried to do such and such a thing at work. Tough. Right?  And, remember, there is nothing obligating you to review anything at all. If you can’t be kind and loving in your review…don’t do it. If you are a follower of Christ, remember that when you put your thoughts into words…even online. Thank you.)

Sitting at the booth in Subway, I realized that I love my job. I love this crazy pace and the way my fingers burn after a day of plentiful story crafting. And that, as frustrating as it was, I needed that time to be stranded for a bit. To gain a smidgen of perspective.

So, I got up and order myself a salad. I even paid a little extra for avocado.