Earlier this week, my husband and I had a routine meeting with our financial guy. He asked me if I'm working. I said I've written three novels (one is a middle grade chapter book, but it's easier to lump it into the category of novel than have to explain it). He asked the question many of us hate to hear: "Did you get them published?!" He asked it with great enthusiasm as if everything depended on it.
"No," I said. He looked at me with complete pity. So I added, "But I haven't tried yet." He looked confused.
I told him I am starting a new historical fiction series. His eyes glassed over with complete disinterest, and my husband and the guy discussed their love of science fiction and what sci-fi stories they would write. I stopped listening and helped my preschooler draw eyeballs (dots) on a jail (a square-ish squiggly shape he drew on a piece of printer paper).
I am happy to say I did not feel demotivated or demoralized or whatever other sad, negative word properly describes the feeling I could have been feeling.
I know I'm on the right path for me. Of the three adults in the room, I know I am the only one that could immerse myself in my little guy's fantasy world, and I'm the only one that will complete the act of writing the stories that fill my mind.
What my husband does get is the reason I'm waiting to seek publication. I haven't finished all the edits on my first three. They are done but need some polishing. Getting everything perfect takes time. It takes time to develop our craft.
I have never been patient, especially with myself. But I know I have the patience to stay the course, to write the next novel, to edit the previous one, to write the next, and on and on until I think they are ready. No one gets a say in that (except my critique partner).