i finished the last touches on the revisions of jack and sarah last night. as the last page rolled off the printer, i thumbed through the white and pristine pages. a revised manuscript doesn't have quite the thrill of a completed first draft... if that feels like birth, this feels like a first wobbling step.
this time through, i eliminated old mud, clarified actions and intentions, and hopefully, explanations.
today i'll go to staples, have a couple bound copies made, and one loose one for jenn. one bound copy goes to my mother to read as she recovers, the other to my father. it makes me happy that my parents read what i write. it would make me happier, of course, if they enjoyed it more. but in the same way some writers are uncomfortable with the idea of their parents reading their work, i imagine it might be difficult for a parent to read the work of a child.
those who know me well enough recognize parts and pieces of my experience woven into the warp and weft of all my stories - names, places, dates. but those who know me really well will recognize much more than that, and those who know me intimately will realize just how much of my own sweat and sinew are strung across the page.
i imagine for a parent it would be difficult. no parent wants to think his or her child will suffer in life. and i know that at least in my writing, through all my stories, hung like a gossamer web, is the evidence and the report card of all the battles i've ever fought, all the challenges i've ever faced, and every painful lesson that i've learned.
i didn't know you knew all that, my father said one day. the regret in his voice was like a kiss on a boo-boo.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.