Call It Good

Book edits have been sitting in my inbox for four days.

I haven’t looked at them yet.

“Wow! You have so much self-control!” my friends say. 

I don’t know how to tell them this—it’s not self-control keeping me from opening up these documents.

You know when you go to the doctor for a routine checkup, and they offer you a flu shot on the spot? And you know you should probably get one, but you also don’t technically have to get one right this moment? And, sure, you could suck it up, but wouldn’t it be nice to have a little more time to mentally prepare for the sting? So you say, “Eh, I’ll get the flu shot at CVS next week.” 

As if that’s going to help—procrastinating, delaying the inevitable. 

But still. It feels good to say “not yet.” It feels like relief. 

Delaying the inevitable is where I’ve been this week, on the cusp of re-entering the manuscript I turned in six weeks ago (and haven’t looked at since).

This is going to sting.

Not yet.
Not yet. 
Not yet. 

My friend Sonya offered a pep talk, “It is going to be so normal to look at this with fresh eyes and think, This could be better. But before you even open the document, take a deep breath. This book is good. This is not the time to have a crisis of faith. If you don’t trust yourself, trust us—you’ve had handfuls of women vet this for you.”

I want to believe her. I want to believe all eight of the women who have read this book, cover to cover, when they tell me it is good. And still, I doubt.

Turning in the manuscript this past December felt significant, but I also felt a sense of relief, a comfort even, in knowing I could still make changes. 

It’s easy to lay your perfectionism down when there is still sand in the timer. 

But now? The sand is almost gone. After this final round of revision, I will be out of time. Every single word I choose will be printed on paper. Every line, as I write it, will live in this book forever. If I think about that too much, I feel like I could throw up. 

Ann Patchett’s words ring in my ears:

I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe, more than anything, that this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. 

I have spent the past four days staring at my inbox, mentally preparing to face down my inadequacies, not even because I expect the book edits to be harsh (I don’t)—but because I know myself to be harsh. 

Tomorrow I will crack open this manuscript for the final time. I will pull up four versions of edits from four more editors. I will spend the next 30 days in ‘Monk Mode’ as Cal Newport says, reanalyzing every line, every story, every word choice. I will read these pages over and over and over again, until my eyes bleed, until the sand is gone, until I attach the whole thing to an email with the word “surrender” in the subject line on March 1st.

I’ve prayed over this book a hundred times, but tonight my prayer is simple: 

Lord, give me compassion for myself. Light the way. And one month from now, when I turn the book in for the final time, help me follow your example and call it “good.”

Amen.