There is much to be learned from Icarus aside from the aerodynamic inefficiency of wax.
I began line edits of my manuscript on my Kindle today, so I can read it in a different format. It is the final buff and polish before I kick it out to my crit readers again by the end of the month. Then, who knows? I write queries to prospective agents. I research the Writer’s Market 2015 for small presses. I get rejection letters. Maybe I get nothing at all.
It certainly wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
There is a part of me that, as soon as it’s finished, will probably open the window and yell at the top of my lungs, “THE WILL OF MACTUS; IT IS WRITTEN,” and probably someone will say “what,” and I’ll say, “IT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE TO YOU, SIR/MADAM, DON’T EVEN WORRY.”
But here is the story of my life: I am quiet.
When I share my work, it will be like sharing little fragments of me. Handing them out saying, “here, this is my heart. Here, have some more.” And I want to do this. This is the beautiful thing about creating. When the author’s story is no longer private, it becomes the readers’ story. I want that, and I hope other people do, too. And I will never assume the hubris that this project was formed and made real without helping hands — very many helping hands.
For now, though, I get to enjoy a creation that I worked hard to enjoy, that is precious to me, that is entirely mine. I’m mapping a flight path, and I know well to keep my distance from the sun. I tinkered with the prototype, salvaged some pretty-looking feathers, and wove them together. I made my own wings.