Somewhere in the depths of my e-mails, I have confirmations that my applications have been submitted. That my short stories have been submitted. That, while this is a great book, this isn’t the right fit for an agent.
Somewhere in the depths of my e-mails, I have pieces of hope surrounded by landmines. I have dreams in the form of read receipts, waiting and wishing and hoping that maybe someday someone would care about you — champion you — as much as I did.
Lake Effect, early drafts of you helped me get into 98% of the MFA programs I applied to. Earlier drafts of you, parts of you that never made it to your final form, are published in literary magazines and have been taught in writing classes. You’re the reason I have the degrees I do, the jobs I do, the internships I’ve had in the past that got me the experience to be good at those jobs.
But that’s not why I wrote you.
You are my rip current, you beautiful monster. For years we built each other up and then broke ourselves back down to our skeletons. Bone by bone, muscle by muscle, your construction took so long those glimmers of hope had dimmed to the weak light of a dying star. But now I’m finally finished with you — you’re finally in the world. Sophie has her voice, is telling her story and, just as she’d like it, it was on her own terms and on her own timeline. The years to get to this point were worth it.
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