I have a friend with a teenage daughter who’s prone to recklessness. She’s stubborn, persistent, and self-righteous. My friend and her husband have had to go so far as to move their mattress in front of the doorway to keep her in at night.

And while I feel for my friend—and I do—I also can’t help thinking how many of my closest friends ran wild as teenagers. Something about the heavy rebellion turned them in to extraordinary adults.

But pity the poor parents, standing sentry by the window until the sun comes up. Or by the phone. It’s excruciating to witness.

It’s one of the reasons I’ve never had a child. I couldn’t bear it. But I do believe we should all do our time in the trenches, so I taught high school drama for seven years. And I loved those kids, all of them, even the ones that kept me awake at night with worry.

Which brings me to what I wanted to talk about. I’ve just sent my second novel, Spanking New, off to my editor...

We’ve all heard it said: Birthing a novel is a lot like having a child. Frankly, the pain of childbirth and the ensuing commitment of rearing said child seems a whole lot bigger than putting forth one’s imaginary characters in one’s imaginary plot, but I think there are similarities. You spend a year or two (or in my case with Spanking New, four years) investing your heart and soul into your manuscript and then you send it off to fend for itself.

Spanking New is the first novel I wrote. I’d just finished writing and performing in a two-woman show, and wanted to continue the writing experience without the ensuing production. Also, I was finding that I liked to describe things, which you don’t really get to do as a playwright. You’re simply responsible for the dialogue. The director chooses the actors, who then create gestures and facial expressions. The designers choose the look. Which believe me, there are times when I’m writing fiction that I wish I had one of my genius set designers around to help me envision the setting. But I digress.

I knew nothing about the publishing industry when I bravely set forth on writing my first novel. I just did it. I’m like that. It wasn’t until I thought Spanking New was done (ha!) that I began researching how to get it published. What a learning curve! (Note to those with publishing aspirations: do this first.) Not to bore you with the details—and I could—I’ve rewritten the novel probably four or five times since then. I’ve hacked off 200 pages, given my protagonist a clear motivation, killed off one of my main characters, then, on a subsequent rewrite, brought him back to life. I’ve had two agents “helping” me. One of whom, after working with me intensively, said that although she felt the novel was ready for publishing, she couldn’t represent me because she’d just found out her daughter had acute Lyme’s Disease and all her attentions had to go to caring for her—foiled by a tick!—and the other agent who kept wanting me to “tone down” the gay aspects of the book.

The difficult child.

I actually wrote The Middle of Somewhere, my currently published novel, to take my mind off Spanking New. The process of writing and publishing The Middle of Somewhere was a dream. It just flowed from my fingertips, and I found the right publisher immediately.

Which brings me back to now. I’ve just sent my difficult child off to fend for herself. I’ve done my last major edit, my last tweak, but as I sit here writing, I’m still thinking of things I could have done to make her better, more prepared for the world. It boils down to worry. Will she be okay out there? Will she know how to stand up for herself?

My friend with the teenage daughter says, “In the end, all you can do is love them.”

I suppose she’s right.

If you’re reading this and have any words of encouragement, or any other kinds of thoughts, I’d love to hear them. I’m missing my sweet baby already.