Seven Ways Writing a First Novel is Just Like Childbirth

     I've been working on my first mystery novel for a long time. I mean, a really long time. So far, the gestation period for this little oven-bun is somewhere between sperm whale and African elephant. It appears my ability to turn out a novel takes after my ability to birth a child, which, granted, I've only done once. But, it took twenty-nine hours, so it seems like I should get credit for more.

Sperm Whales are pregnant for 16 months!

     Anyway, having decided these similarities warranted further procrastination reflection, I identified seven other ways writing a novel is exactly like pushing an entire human being out of your vagina:

1. Things will not go according to plan. You can map everything out ahead all you want, right down to what music is playing when the little angel crowns, or how many chapters you will finish before Christmas. But when the time comes and you’re in the thick of it, things are gonna go the way they’re gonna go, and you’re just along for the ride.

2. It hurts more than you thought it would. Way more. WAY, WAY MORE.  

3. Sometimes you need drugs (see above). Whether it’s an epidural, a glass of wine or caffeine on an IV drip, go ahead and do what you gotta do to get through it. If anyone questions your judgement, loudly suggest that THEY try doing this sober, then, if they're so effing awesome.

4. Many things will come out of you during this time. A lot of them will be crap. And that’s OK.

5. It isn’t pretty (see above). These are the parts they don’t tell you about beforehand, before you’re committed. No one tells you about the vomiting, peeing, pooping, cramping, sweating, swearing, screaming, crying, tearing, cutting and bleeding. Alert: all of these ALSO happen during childbirth!

6. Having a support system helps. A lot. When you think you can’t go on another second, you need someone to remind you that you’re strong, that you can do this, by golly, and that now is probably not the time to decide to leave your partner for the anesthesiologist.

7. This last one is both terrifying and exhilarating: no one else can do this for you. While you can learn and gain inspiration from others who’ve been there, your experience is unique, and only you can see it through to the end. This is your bag, baby, and you can do it. 

The Coffin in My Living Room

There’s a coffin in my living room. It’s a ratty-looking black wooden thing, and it’s been here for eight years. It’s not real, to be clear. It’s a stage coffin. But it’s full-size, and it sure looks real, by Dracula! The inside is lined in pink imitation satin and smells of moldy sawdust. For a while, we used it as a coffee table, prompting interesting reactions from guests who either loved it or hated it. Nowadays, though, we just use our coffin to store crap treasured keepsakes and documents. Is it ugly? Yes. Is it too big and ungainly for our small apartment? Yes. Do I sometimes look at it and think “that thing is a serious fire trap?” Yes. Do I want to get rid of it? No effing way.

t’s called “Undead Chic”

First, it’s a COFFIN! A person-sized one. You can lie down in it with the lid closed and everything. Think of the possible pranks and party uses! It also appeals deeply to my inner Goth, who is itching to light a bunch of candles and lay down in it while listening to “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” if I’d let her. (I will NOT; someone needs to act like a grownup and get shit done, you know.)

Second, we plan to graduate to living in a house someday, hopefully by the time my son reaches high school. How cool will our rec room be to the teen crowd with a COFFIN as the center piece? Especially if it’s full of snacks and soda and video games?? I also fantasize about filling it with free condoms, LGBTQ-friendly literature and informational brochures about safe sex, crisis hotlines and college planning. (Apparently you can take the writer out of social work, but you can’t take the social worker out of the writer.) Yep, the kids are gonna flock to my house, for sure!

Currently it’s the coffin of Undead Art Supplies.

The main reason there’s a coffin in my living room, though, is because it came with my husband, just “part of the territory.” He and a buddy salvaged it from a closing theater when they were in their early twenties, living in their first apartment on Capitol Hill.  

“It was too big for our studio,” he told me, grinning, the day he unloaded it from the U-Haul. “And it was a total pain in the ass to carry up the stairs. But we had to take it. I mean, it’s a COFFIN!”

How could I argue with that? Also, since the “part of the territory” items he got with me included one son, one ex-stepdaughter, one ex-husband, one spending addiction and two mental health disorders, I was not about to give him grief over the coffin. He could have had ten coffins and I’d still have had to be like, “OK, no problem! Bring ‘em on in! I think we can put one in the bathroom!”

So, I rarely never look at our coffin hulking over there under the window, taking up almost the whole length of the wall, and consider donating it to the local HS drama club. Instead, I look at it and think, “That’s going to look so cool in the teenage man cave!” And then I imagine my son lounging around the coffin with friends, laughing, eating junk food, talking about school, video games, movies, music, dating, dreams, life. Just like my husband did. Just like I did. Just like we all did.

(First published October 2015 at http://tiffanypitts.com/wp/)