I finished the first draft of the book that would become Summers at Blue Lake on my birthday in 2001. I wrote the book, not out of some need to be published, but because I had no other choice: the story wanted to be written. How else can you explain a mother who worked full time and had two children under the age of seven completing a manuscript in two months? Only once the first draft was finished did I consider its future as a bound book. I did not know then that the process of bringing the book to the shelves would take six years and an estimated fifty revisionary passes on my part. This is why my answer is always persistance when anybody asks what a writer needs above all else.
I have had little moments of success along the way. The day my agent's assistant called me the first time. (Funny story: I painted my mailbox a beautiful shade of purple to attract that all elusive acceptance letter, and my agent used the phone instead.) Then there was the week my agent called with multiple publication offers to consider. The day the actual check arrived in the mail was a good one. (Finally got some use out of that purple mailbox.) Now those moments are coming faster. The day I saw the cover. The promotional postcards delivered to my door just this week. News that over 200 galley copies were sent out for review. The email from the marketing department asking if I am available on a certain day in early August for a radio interview. It's exciting--to say the least-- but it isn't a substitute for that moment of creation.
It's in that moment when the work is mine, and mine alone, that I feel the most satisfaction. I know then that I have accomplished what I set out to do. (When you read Summers at Blue Lake, you'll find that my protagonist has similar feelings about the jewelry she creates.) And so the process begins again. My artwork is squeaky clean and ready for its debut in October. I have two more manuscripts waiting to begin their journey away from me and into the greater world. The creative process is a cyclical one. I happily take my laps, walking in circles, forgetting to count the turns.
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