Is your book your baby?

A discussion with a writer friend of mine reminded me of my own entry in an ongoing essay series over at AuthorScoop.  The premise and prompt of the series is the age old comparison of a writer’s work to the birth of a child.  The series, as a whole, has been fascinating, with writers from all walks and achievements weighing in.  I thought I’d repost my entry here.

“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard the comparison of a writer’s work to his child, I wonder if it would take the sting out of writing for only hope and heartburn?  Probably not.  But no matter, the question is: is it true?  Is each story a spawn?

In a word, or three – not at all.  Not for me, at any rate.

This has less do to with what I think of my writing than it does with how I think of my children.  From the moment I knew they were there, they were never mine.  Even earlier than that, in the days before I realized that everything was about to change, or change again, the DNA had already merged; the match was in the tinder.

After that, nothing beyond my dumb animal functions of chewing the choicest feed and resting when the hooves and hide told me to was going to make much of a difference.  That baby, to an extent, was what it was going to be from the first spark, and all very much beyond my control.

And no plea or plan I owned had any bearing on labor and delivery, that’s for sure.

Making a baby is easy.  Writing is hard.

It’s is an act of will, and I’m not exactly known for my flint and iron.  As such, I can’t relate my work to a cosmic roll of the dice and the ensuing biological avalanche.  My inertia or distraction, thank god, never kept a fetus from growing her fingernails or hooking up her little gall bladder pump to her small intestine.

It really comes down to what I imagine I can take credit for.  The word ‘pride’ has never sat snuggly in the hole that each of my daughters has scooped out of my heart. What I feel for them is far purer than what I feel for anything I’ve written.  They are a product of all their world, inside and out.  My writing is more of me than my children ever could (or should) be.  It’s mine.  They are not.

Of course that means a small, bound universe fails in its entirety when I don’t write it right, and it’s all my fault.  But I know the difference.  Ruin a child and you’ve committed the gravest sin.  Ruin a manuscript and, in godlike prerogative, you can stir the deluge, commission an ark, and try it again – albeit perhaps in the employ of a new pen name.  (And a new agent, if you’ve really mucked it up.)

The biggest challenge in handling my babies is doing it well.  With the writing, the fight is more of a joust with the Devil.  He whispers sweet stingingly that I don’t have to do it at all.  It’s much harder to rouse my artistic diligence than it is to surrender myself to the mostly-happy obligations of family life.  Praise for one certainly tingles in an entirely different place than for the other.  Same goes for the pain.

Of course, all of this may simply mean that I’m doing it wrong, either the mothering part or the writing.  Holy hell, what if it’s both?”