Kill Your Darling…Babies? Oh My. Oliveira & Kramin Weigh In
Pregnancy, childbirth, and parental attachment metaphors abound in this business. Strain at the plot arc and grind your teeth through the editing pains and you’ve given birth (or at least served as midwife) to a new thing, a wobbly creature you christen with a title, then swaddle in cover art. Endure criticism and it stings like having your baby defamed as hard-on-the-eyes. Ask many a writer and you’ll hear that the task of peddling a manuscript is nothing short of turning out your very flesh and blood into the cold, cruel world.
Life is hard, but literature is a nursery of horrors.
Or is it?
AuthorScoop has invited authors of every stripe to weigh in on Thursdays, on one question:
Is your book your baby?
(view the entire essay collection here)
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Insofar as a book is a complex, separate, unwieldy, difficult, beloved, independent creature, then yes, my book was my baby. But now that my children are in their twenties, I find it more relevant to compare the process of completing a book to the entire scope of parenting, which for me began when those tiny individuals popped out and I instantly knew two things: I was hopelessly in love, and they were going to require more resources from me than I possessed at the time. That disquiet and passion also pretty much sums up the beginning of writing My Name is Mary Sutter. I can never say that I was certain, at any given moment of parenting or writing, what the right choice might be for any given problem. Sometimes I guessed, sometimes I followed a primal, maternal or literary instinct, sometimes I floundered, and on the good days—which I hope were more frequent, not less—I tried to make intelligent choices based on that underlying, enduring love. What I learned over time was that my characters, like my children, had their own truths, their own lives, and it was my job to discover who they were, what they wanted, what they needed from me, and then at moments of intense pressure, summon spontaneous wisdom to figure out how to equip them so that they ultimately could become their best selves. And after I had given each of them every chance, every attention, every ounce of love I could squeeze from my exhausted soul, I sent them all out into the world. It was then that I knew what a folly the concept of “finished” was, because my worries for my book, like those for my children, including whether they will flounder and sink far from my the reaches of my arms or whether anyone will ever love them as much as I do, are never-ending, and that in choosing to write a book, I have risked my heart once again, fool that I am.
-Robin Oliveira, author of MY NAME IS MARY SUTTER
I do feel that my books are indeed, very much my babies. As far as gestation goes, not really. I wish I had 
only carried my kids for around a month. After that though, very much so. I am always very protective of my work and will only give it out to a limited number of eyes, like trusting your kids to only the best babysitters. I have nightmares about dying before I get to see their full potential. ie: published vs graduation, great jobs & grandkids. I drive with my laptop in my passenger seat, protecting my novels within and use the “mom arm” with it if I have to hit the brakes fast. I love each one for it’s own differences and try not to love one more than another. * grins * After receiving the news that I was going to be published, I did refer to it as “my baby” because it was going to take nine months for anyone else to be able to see it.
So yes, freakazoid sounding as it may be, my books are my babies. * throws cover art over shoulder and burps it *
-June Donaghy Kramin, author of the just-released paranormal romance, DUSTIN TIME
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