Is A Writer's Work a Runaway Train?

Recently, one of my nonfiction essays was accepted for publication. And I had a very strange reaction: ambivalence. While I was thrilled and flattered someone thought my piece was cool enough to put up on their online journal, I also reacted the way I do when I have to say goodbye to someone I love: I didn't want to do it.

I know--melodramatic. I'm sure I am in some ways, but really, I like to think of it as very sensitive and thoughtful. This essay has been with me in different forms for two years. I probably started writing it over eight years ago, in snatches of steno pads here and there. It's been through two different workshops, two different times a piece.

What's more, my novel will probably devote over four chapters to the same setting, the NYC Parks department. It's a lot of baggage for a twenty-five page nonfiction essay. I wanted my essay to stay home a little longer so I could maybe gather together a really spiffy suit for it, and maybe some new loafers.

I was torn because I'm not really done with the ideas in this piece. I was torn because just like the feeling mothers have on the first day of school (and middle school teachers who remember what it's like to be the new kid) I wanted to make sure my essay-kid didn't have anything attached to it that would be made fun of. I didn't want the other kids to make fun of its quirky lists, or its jagged style of sub-heading organization. I didn't want the subtlety to actually keep readers from thinking it has a point. I wasn't sure it was ready for the point of no return, where I can't change it, re-order it, inject more narrative and smooth its hybrid flyaways, its amateurish hangnails.

For better or worse, I let go, and its forthcoming in Front Porch's winter 09 issue. I didn't feel this way about my previous publication. I blew a kiss and rarely thought of it since. Will seeing my essay in Front Porch make me cry, and beg my little essay-let to come home where it can be anything it wants to be in perpetuity? Even if that's my emotional reaction, I've decided it's like taking vitamins: laboring over a piece and letting it go might hold valuable oppotunities for my growth as a writer.

I emailed the editor about the changes I'd made: a small four lines here, word choice tinkerings in a few pages--nothing major, but huge to me. I decided that if I was going to let go of it, it would reflect the very latest work I'd put into it.

Photo Credit: James Salter