the last days

Right before I publish a novel, the last flurry of edits occurs, which is no more than one final read-through, which leads to formatting.  Then uploading and voila!  A new novel is released, out of my hands.

That sounds quick and easy, but of course, as any writer knows, there is no quick and easy when it comes to noveling, whether it's indie or traditional.  So much work, but eventually, it all comes down to these last days, like of pregnancy; very soon it's all going to change.

The funniest part, which I did not at all anticipate, was how each book that I had plotted, researched, and outlined, drafted, edited and revised, formatted, read-through, then uploaded, suddenly stopped being mine.  My name adorns the cover, sits within the text, but I assumed they would remain mine forever.  Such a fallacy, at least for me.  Maybe it's from having published more than a few in a short space of time, or just the inevitable notion that Jack and Meg White so eloquently expressed when they split up a year ago; their music was now for the fans.  My books are for the readers.  I'll not be touching them again.

I could, so easy to smooth out bumps and bruises; just upload a new version on Smashwords, or issue a new edition on Lulu.  But I am of the firm conviction a novel is how it is, like a painting; to revise once it's been released is like tampering with nature.  I know artists redo songs, maybe they are immune from this, because every time a singer performs live, the song is altered, changed, but with books and paintings and sculptures, what has been set down is final, permanent, forever.  And no longer belonging to the artist.  It's for all who see it, read it, take whatever they need from it.  No longer is it from who originally created it.

I felt that by going indie, my novels would remain MINE.  No editor or publisher could twist and poke; crit partners have that right, but ultimately manuscripts stayed under my control.  Which is true, until I publish them.  Then suddenly shackles fall, all I gripped and groaned over, all I sweated and toiled for is out of my hands in a peculiar but liberating manner.  It's taken a few novels to accept this, but as Memories Of Home, the third Alvin's Farm book, is about ready to hit the web, I smile when I think of my initial naive notions.  I was an independent novelist, I owned my tales, blah blah blah; hah!  The books live in the internet, in eReaders, in people's hearts.  How do I assume to wrench back that sort of possession?

No possible way; The White Stripes knew exactly what they were on about.  Their tunes swirl in my soul, so many favorites that they set to vinyl, performed on stages, but as soon as they worked out the lyrics and chords, melodies and beats, who really owned those tunes?  Books are the same; I've been blessed to form the plots, write the words, conclude the message.  Then off each goes, landing in various venues, in all manner of devices and hands.  All I can do is be as honest as I'm able, tell each story with compassion, humor, truth.  Truth is a biggie for me, and one of the most striking is that for all my indie aspirations, once a book is published, it's gone.  I don't rework it, I don't cling to it.  I can't, for my sanity and because more plots clamor for attention.  So, as I set to begin the last check of Memories Of Home, I say a little prayer, thankful for this opportunity, and for endings.  Which always lead to something new...