The Manuscript

The other day I received at last my postcard returned with one word scrawled across the back—"Arrived"—and an initial. That one insignificant word spoke more than it contained, carrying with it one of the great joys of a writer: knowing that the precious manuscript has safely reached its intended destination, the hands of a publishing company.

This was no mere dashed-off work of a month as some novels ar

e, but the work of several years and several revisions. Begun with a dear writer friend of mine as a round story, it soon stalled. Enthralled by it, I continued the work on my own until it grew far beyond its paltry beginnings, although lacking still cohesive plot and substance. Years more I poured into it in ragged rhythm: a time of revisions and a time of critiques, a time of rest and a time of rewriting. Until at last the time came that it was ready to send off.

I sent it first to a small publisher—Twilight Times Books—with whom I had spoken through an online writers' conference. When I had the opportunity to pitch my manuscript the publisher, she asked me to submit the whole manuscript, and so I did, waiting for a response as I continued with other projects. At last—three months or so later—I received my rejection, for she had decided that it did not fit with her current line of books.

The work began all over again: first a further polishing, and then the work of researching publishers, and more polishing before at last I deemed it ready

to send off again. This time I decided I would aim high, sending it to one of the foremost publishers of fantasy. My decision meant also that I could not submit electronically as I had become accustomed to doing, but rather by mail, as did all writers of old.

There is such satisfaction in gazing upon a printed manuscript waiting to be sent off to the publisher, and in hefting its nearly eight-pound weight. It is the joy of accomplishment—of a work well done.

It means a great deal more to a writer's heart to send off such a weighty manuscript, understanding with a twinge that the pride and joy of his efforts is soon to face its test of worthiness. Only the writer who has poured so much time and so much of himself into his work can know the depth of meaning in that sending-off and the risk he takes—that leap of faith.

And yet I found that my heart was strangely unmoved. It rested solely in a peace that cared not whether the leap of faith had been in vain insofar as the world judges; it was enough to have done it, accomplishing thereby the duty of the moment.

There have been times when I was much discouraged by my lack of success in publishing and in the feedback I received from others, but now no longer. My worth as a writer stands unshaken—for it is built on the solid ground of my own hard work and perseverance, and a confidence in the skill given me. Let the tempests of the world blow as they will, the waves of discouragement wash against my rocky fastness, I will stand firm, letting my words shine like a beacon of light in this dark world, trusting that they will find their suited place and time where they will touch the hearts they are meant to touch.

St. Francis de Sales, patron of writers, pray for us!