Should I send the first draft?

Should I send the first draft, or should I not?
Fear, that’s what it boils down to.

It’s a funny old thing, when you actually put pen to paper (figuratively or otherwise) and write what might be your life’s work: of course you are desperate for others to see it, whether or not it is ready; while you might want the adulation and accolade, that’s not what it’s about. Rather, otherwise, your effort becomes a tree fallen in an empty forest, unsure whether or not it exists. A book is performance art, every conjunction a carefully planned step in the lightest of dances. To have it read is to see it come to life, to fire synapses of recognition, of emotion, of acceptance in another.

But: what if it does none of those things, is none of those things? What if the whole thing was a folly, a whimsy that got out of hand? For that matter, who couldn’t write the book on imposter syndrome, and where is it worse felt than in this, most personal of projects? Writing is the ultimate in narcissism, when every character, plot line and scene offers a mirror onto the author, reflecting hopes and desires, attitudes and dislikes. It’s all about me, me, me, and if you don’t like it, I might cry. Or simply realise how stupid I was, to even begin this project.

Fear is not reality, of course. The former is self-centred, and rightly so (fear would serve little purpose if it was not), whereas the latter requires taking a step back, marking a change of mode from subject to observer. In the world of reality, such absolutes as something being utterly awful are rarely true. More likely (in this case) are that the draft needs work; that some parts, and characters, come across better than others; that the story is not as well told as it could be, for a number of clear (and resolvable) reasons. Which brings to the other cause of fear, which less about the book, and more about being told that one’s baby, born after a long, tough gestation, is not perfect in every way…

…even though you know it. You can already feel the affront, you are girding your loins for the resentful reply you will no doubt write, though you may fail to send (hurrah for a night’s sleep, everything feels better in the morning). You can already recognise it as the stage before bargaining, then acceptance of what needs fixing; you already know that the book will be better for it. Yet, despite being so clear on both process and outcome, you cannot avoid the pain of either.

So be it, you say. You take another look at the draft, turning sections over in your mind, reviewing paragraphs, maybe tweaking a word or two. This done, you move away from it, and back, and away, and back, like a dog investigating a foreign object. Wearily, the more sanguine, sane part of you realises that you have no choice: you can sit on the draft forever, or you can release it into the ether and see what happens. You remember the still-recent joy you felt, when it seemed some parts of it were writing themselves, when a character took you by surprise, or a situation resolved itself without your intervention: all you had to do was tell it as it happened.

It’s then you realise you are no more than a character in a larger tale, following an arc of your own making. You smile, wryly, to yourself, acknowledging that your tale isn’t particularly original: “Wannabe successful author in existential crisis shocker,” goes the headline. You only have one thing to do, so you get on and do it, writing the cover email, then rewriting, taking out paragraphs that, if you were a cook, would read, “I’m sorry but I dropped it as I took it out of the oven,” attaching the thing itself, and yes, biting your lower lip as you hit send. For better or worse, it is done.