The Passage of Time

As I was writing the title of this post, I imagined the passage of time as an actual passage, a long tunnel fading into misty vagueness behind and indistinct plans ahead.

It’s been years since I worked on my finished novel. I went looking for the manuscript for the first time in years yesterday. I sent it out to beta readers seven years ago. It feels like both forever and yesterday—a feeling that is becoming more common the older I get. When I sent out those beta reader copies, I wasn’t married; I wasn’t even in a relationship with my now-husband. I had just started my current job, and I had no published articles. I lived in an apartment with a roommate and my beloved cat, who passed away this June. Now I live in a half-renovated house with my husband, my kid, and three kittens under a year old, one of whom interrupted the writing of this post by determinedly and repeatedly shoving his head into my armpit while purring loudly.

But back to the book. At this point, I’m not even sure which version of the manuscript is the latest or if there’s one with all the beta readers’ edits made. I have files in at least two different cloud locations. And I have another seven years of editing experience under my belt, so another read-through is definitely in order. But I’m determined to publish this time. I’ve achieved so many things that used to seem impossible. This is just one more anxiety mountain to climb.