Almost two weeks ago, I gave the first thirty-three pages of my baby, er, children's novel manuscript to my critique group. We meet tomorrow. During school vacation. At my house. With my gang of mayhem and two other kids added to the mix. And the one person I know outside the group will not be there, so she returned my pages with her comments yesterday.
I've done a lot of work on those first thirty pages in the past 6ish years since I started writing this little tale. They are the initial inspiration, and what I always felt really worked about the book. The changes I had made were on the small side, grammar, tense, slight rearranging of things. Now I feel like I have to move a thought bubble that wraps the first third of the novel very nicely and turn into a scene that will be the new opening of the book. Not that that was her exact suggestion, but that's where my mind took it.
But I love my opening! There's a great slow build to what happened to make this kid so upset in the opening lines.
I have had other readers who really loved the opening. I have four more readers to hear from tomorrow.
How can my heart be simutaneously in my throat and in the bottom of my gut at the same time? I feel like I have a big envelope to open, and it either has very very good news, or absolutely horrid news to bear. Quite possibly both. And once I open it, I will have to cut my big ball of dough in half, knead it, fold it over and over again into itself, pound on it, and hopefully, a beautiful loaf will emerge from the oven.
I know, mixed metaphor central, but give me a break!
Anticipation is a killer.