The hour finally arrives. A sharp pencil rests on a few empty sheets of paper. I dial the phone. There is no answer. Months of delays lead me to this moment, the day a sleeping pile of pages detours back to that messy path, the road to publishing my next book. I am a patient person. I know people have a lot going on, far more pressing than this pile of pages, these stories full of heartache and catastrophe. I try to call a few minutes later. I check the last email, and yes it is the right time, the right number. I scribble around the corners of those empty white pages, chewing through an entire hour. They never answer.
I make a quiet lunch. Eating in the dark kitchen with the wind whipping around the tops of the trees, I know what must happen.
Within an hour, I have placed a job listing and begin to hear back. Bright and shiny messages arrive, many complete bullshit, some over-selling and a handful are as smart and thoughtful as I could ask for. I send the first page of Papa on the Moon to three of them, to learn what they say needs fixing. I write by ear, not by rule. It is time to plug the holes, fix the cracks and gently set this boat afloat. By the end of the next day, I have found someone I trust. A name hangs in the darkness. A tiny face in a circle on my screen. A college they went to, and a list of degrees. Recommendations tumble down. Where they live. It paints just part of a picture and this is always a leap of faith - but I feel so foolish for resisting this solution. I could have done this months if not years ago. There is no looking back now. The road behind me is littered with bad ideas and empty plans.
The messages arrive. Good questions about what I meant in a given moment. Choices, and moving on to the next page. Editing is part of writing - there is nothing new in saying that, but finally it feels as juicy and full of promise as writing. It feels like the refrigerator is stuffed with fresh things to cook, the door barely able to close. It feels like an old pair of jeans that was too small suddenly fit again. It feels like that cold, sour air from the balcony that threatens an early winter has no hold on me. I am rewinding to summer. I am walking backwards up great hills of fresh cut grass, back all of the way to my childhood on our farm where the only friends were a big dog and the chickens. The smell of rotting pumpkins, and chimney smoke, the taste of homemade maple syrup.
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