I am exhausted. I can no longer think. All I can do is lay here and listen to the nothing. There is no longer a cacophony of thought or intellectual band creative battle raging. Just emptiness. No radio is blaring, no CD is spinning. Nothing but ambient white noise that I barely register. It was a long and arduous birth, almost as long as the pregnancy itself. But it's over. I've finally accomplished what I have struggled through decades of mental infertility to achieve. I have given birth. There was no resounding slap and no howls of indignation as my child crawled from my womb. Children such as these do not cry. It was carried away silently while I collapsed in a heap. It never made a sound. I awoke here in this place, alone and wrapped in blessed silence. I don't even know if my child was born unharmed. It could have been stillborn for all I know, but I won't know this for quite some time. All I can do now is hope and pray that the pain and anguish were worth it. That the years of struggle, discomfort and suffering paid off. It took a couple of days before I was able to embrace my child. I needed the rest. We'd traveled together for so so long, I needed the distance. Is it even possible to develop post part-em depression when you finish writing a book? It sounds ridiculous to compare such a life altering event as childbirth to writing the words “The End” but the are the same. Only a few minor differences actually separate them. You struggle for what feels like an eternity watching this “thing” grow inside you. It gets bigger and bigger as time pases while your ass does its best to keep pace with that growth since its practically impossible to write on a treadmill. It brings you moments of joy when it kicks as it nears its time and frustrates you to the point of nausea when it refuses to progress. It drags you and your emotions on a nightmare of a roller coaster as parts of your self get absorbed into its psyche. And then one day the dam bursts on your imagination and you feel the irresistible urge to push. So you do. And you keep pushing and pushing, screaming in frustration the entire time until it breaks free and you collapse in a sweat soaked heap. At least with a human pregnancy this process only takes nine months and the end result is fairly predictable since you're only left with two choices; boy or girl. But with a child of words, the process can take years. And at the end of that long tunnel, there is no simple choice between pink or blue. The possibilities are infinite. Your newborn doesn't cry or whine but it speaks volumes nonetheless. It doesn't poop or spit up or beg for food but it needs and it grows just the same. I thought when this process was over I could lay here in this peace and quiet and let my mind relax but that is not the case. I'm a new single mother and the journey is just beginning. There will be a million decisions that must be made in nurturing this new life, each with the potential to shape or destroy my offspring. My selfish inner self keeps yelling out “Now do you remember why you didn't have kids?” My child will grow up much faster than a human child but it will face the same challenges. As I spend my days transcribing it, I will forming it into a viable being. I'll show it off to my friends like any ridiculously proud mom and eagerly await their input. Some will coo and say its beautiful, terrific, spectacular! Others will laugh and tease me and say I should have been pickier about the dad. And some will smile and congratulate me and then say snidely behind my back “What does she think she's going to do with that?” Being a mom is tough and I'll have to protect myself and my child as it takes its first steps into this hostile world. Its toddler-hood will fly by as it first attempts to walk and then run. I will pour all of my knowledge and experience into it during rewrites as I shape this new being. All the while wondering if I'm doing the right thing. It will be defiant and fussy at times and I will have to assert my will over it. But eventually it will pass into adolescence and begin to pull away. It will begin to become a social animal. It will meet new people who want to be a part of its life and it will be my job to weed out who will and who will not be involved; publishers, editors, artists, agents, professionals, critics (well there's no keeping them out). Who knows who might become an influence as I struggle to give it a name, a cover, an identity. Eventually, like all growing children, it will become a teenager and that's when things get really scary. It will struggle to break away and fly on its own. And I will have to allow it. It will try this and that as it determines its own destiny. It will be subject tot he whims of fashion and trends as it struggles to find its audience. It will meet all manner of people and I will walk the floors at night worrying about it. Will it meet the right person and make a beautiful life for itself complete with children (aka sequels)? That's every parents dream for their child. But it could just as easily meet some dickhead who just want to squeeze what he can get out of it; use it and lose it. Will my child end up with such a douche bag and start wearing gnarly book covers? Will it end up running with a bad crowd? Will it meet some low-life publisher and end up as soft core housewife porn or a coffee table book for boring parties? Will it end up sitting in a rack at the local Starbucks next to the Ethiopian blend? Even after it reaches adulthood and, God willing, begins to sell, I will still worry. It is after all my baby. The more I think about it the scarier it gets. Why in God's name did I ever think I could do this. With my luck I will make the worst parenting mistakes ever and end up pushing my book at a booth between the slap chopper demonstrations and the irregular perfume counter at the county fair. I can't think about this anymore. I'm going back to bed to listen to the white noise of the t.v. One thing I do know for sure” For book two, I'm ditching the pencils for a laptop. Its gonna be PC-Section all the way.