2011 is the Year of the Babes. Again. As I'm thirty-(ahem) it's happened before, but this is the first time I've really paid attention, probably because the new mums number be in the twenties by July. In half-a-dozen countries and a dozen states.
Baby-dom and motherhood has always scared the daylights out of me, but thanks to my good friend Jayne (and the brilliant nearly-3-year-old Esme) I'm not quite as flummoxed by the whole thing as I once was. And Erik, whose postings about wee Nora make me giggle, and John, who used to blog more regularly before he had his second. And because I'm watching so many friends blossom into their new roles. I admire parents so much, especially those who can continue to keep their identity when their worlds often revolve around Peppa Pig, Disney films and Justin Bieber.
Creative types often use the term 'baby' to describe their oeuvre - understandably, with the time commitment, passion, learning curve, etc. More importantly, when either baby is let loose on the world, the creator loses all control, and the baby becomes open to criticism, praise, loathing, accolades. All affect the creator to the core.
I let a baby go last week. After a few good chats with authors I admire, and a few better chats with myself, I cast aside the novel I was (failing at) revising. It's not me. It was me years ago, but it's not me now. I've gone back to something else, that I've let sit for a year or so, and it's soaring. I'm back in control and no longer balancing more than one baby. Whilst lassoing the ideas for other babies and shutting them into a box with a tight lid.
What's been nice about resurrecting the book is I'm going back to the original story, before I had the input of others. The WIP critique pointed out problems that are all solved by cutting the crap and focusing on the story I wanted to tell when I first started this book, years ago. Thanks, Kamal, for reminding me of the story I loved. Onward, baby. Adolescence awaits.