Dream a little dream

So I’ve finally cracked open my Writers’ Yearbook. I don’t know why, but the mere sight of it is intimidating and fills me with a peculiar sense of dread and foreboding. Strange, huh? Or maybe not? Just thinking of the 800 pages of publishers, agents, advice and industry feedback feels like 800 pages of rejection. Pathetic, but right now I can boast I’ve written a book and take a small amount of pride in the accomplishment, however meagre it may prove. Once I take the plunge and road test it with the professionals it’s no longer a dream, but a reality facing some hard truths. It could fail. I could fail. It’s a comfort to harbour the dream, to keep it just so, neat and untarnished in its little compartment of my psyche. It comes in handy on days I feel an unshakable need to define myself as more than just a wife, mother and professional nappy changer. A security blanket during those random moments when I seek fulfilment beyond emptying the dishwasher, or potty training. (Scratch that. Getting your child to wee on his own is wildly satisfying. Bizarre? Maybe. But you parents out there know, don’t you?)

Naturally such anxiety could present a wee hiccup in my singular ambition to see my prose in thumb-able print with that ubiquitous and oh so lovely “3 for 2″ promotion sticker plastered on the cover at Waterstone’s. (Apologies, I mean Waterstones. What is it with everyone omitting the apostrophes? Are they that difficult to comprehend? Are we that dim?) I digress.

But I’ve put it off long enough and thus far cleverly skirted all those well-meaning, if naturally dubious enquiries concerning whether I’ve done anything close to securing an agent and/or publishing deal and I’m running out of plausable excuses other than my own mental inertia. So whilst I’m in the process of re-working the first draft I’m debating two schools of thought. Perfect my opus as far as I possibly can before even contemplating a professional critique (and thus indulging my need to savour the dream that much longer), or sod it, send my synopsis and first three chapters, poked, prodded and edited to within an inch of its life off to fly. All grows up. (Well, the proposal, anyway.) Fact is I’m growing impatient, and if I’m honest rather bored of this mental torpor and crave the next step, come what may. And I suppose that if I’m keen for anybody beyond my immediate family to read my book (lovely as they are) I’m going to have to do more than will it so. Right?