Feelings of unreality

Feelings of unreality are a side effect of being pregnant, according to one of the guides to pregnancy I have been given. I can certainly relate to this. Although I know that I’m pregnant, I still find myself wondering why I’m feeling so tired, or sick, or why I’m finding it difficult to get up off the sofa. We are beginning to collect baby equipment and have just one adorable sun dress that our daughter won’t fit into until next summer. I look at the dress from time to time and I’m not sure what it’s doing in our house.

I suspect that part of the feeling of unreality is a deliberate caution on my part. I’m still aware that there are things that could go wrong. But mostly, I think the sense of unreality comes from the sheer improbability of conception and birth. It is extraordinary to think that a real person is growing inside me and that one day they will emerge into the world to live a life of their own. No matter how much she kicks or hiccoughs, I still find it hard to comprehend.

Having a book published seems equally implausible at the moment. Wild Rose is undergoing a second round of submissions to new set of publishers, which means that I’m trying not to check my emails obsessively for news on how it’s going. Despite the encouragement of my agent and the knowledge that most authors experience lengthy periods of uncertainty before someone finally makes them an offer, at times it feels it will never happen.

Despite these feelings of unreality, there is an impetus to keep going. We are picking up more baby equipment over the weekend. I continue to slowly clear the study to make room for a nursery. And I continue working on re-writes for A Good Death, hoping that before long I will be going through the same process of hope and doubt about its chances with the publishers.

Feeling that the baby will never come is irrational, while feeling that the book might not find a publisher is more reasonable. But in both cases the answer is to carry on regardless. Thinking about what could go wrong with the baby is unhelpful to my general sanity and wellbeing. Thinking about whether a publisher will like what I’m writing slows me down to an excruciating snail’s pace.

When the day comes that something extraordinary happens, whether it’s the birth of our baby or the publication of one of my manuscripts, I will try to remember how unlikely it seemed and therefore how much more miraculous.