Letting Go

Whew! It’s done. I’ve been finished with my manuscript for over a month but kept re-writing, adding and deleting from it. I think part of this was to stave off the pain of letting it go. I feel like I’ve given my baby up to someone else to raise, like they did in England in the 1800s. The aristocracy gave the baby to another family to suckle and rear until four or so, then sent him off at seven or eight to go to school. Of course, some had tutors come in. I think they were the ones who really liked their kids.

In the 1900s the English custom changed a bit. These same aristocrats were very big on housing nannies to raise the kids then sent them to live at school at eight or nine, never to return, except summers and holidays, until 16 or 18 or so. This was mostly the boys but sometimes the girls, too. Frankly, I think they missed all the fun.

Anyway, it’s gone and I won’t breathe deeply again until I have the finished book, with its shiny, new cover in my hands. A new child is born, named Pieces of Me.