That’s my novella.
Today I finally sent my young, long-suffering pile of pages to an editor. (Who is also a friend, a great writer is his own right, and possibly a masochist for agreeing to muddle through my ramblings. )
This tome has taken years. Actual years. I’ve put more time and aching into this than anything I’ve ever written. Not for any good reason, except that I couldn’t stop. Eventually I kept coming back to this story. Malina and her waves. Her hurt. Her running. Her finding.
It’s only 100 pages, and barely 70,000 words. But it has an emotional baggage and a heft of something much more impressive. At least to me.
This tiny novel has moved with me between three houses and one divorce. I’ve struggled with it in kitchens, coffee shops, airports, parks and a boyfriend’s bed. This has been my albatross and my Rosebud. It has within it not necessarily a greatness but a slippery incompleteness.
I never, never, never thought I would finish it. But here we are, my little book and I. Older and more heartbroken. Seen some things. Cried a lot. Smiled at least a little. She’s been a stoic and brave, loyal and accepting mid-life muse and companion.
Drowning Above Water may never see daylight. The twisting snarls of self-publishing may prove more than we can bear, me and my story. But we’re gonna try.
Thank you, to my story and anyone who ever finds her. Even if we never get there, to the magic place we wanted to find; where people can read our struggles and joys and find friends in our characters. It’s been a long, hard but lovely trip. I’d start it all again tomorrow.
Well, maybe not tomorrow. Maybe a little later.
Drowning Above Water by Alyssa Herron.