Of course, a tiny part of you gives a small sigh. It’s an end of the innocence.

Still, would you really have it any other way?

My eldest child got married last summer. The film of my firstborn novel, ““The Deep End of the Ocean,’’ was completed not long after that. I can’t say for sure how either of those projects is going to turn out. But I have great hopes for both.

At an artists’ colony once, I shocked my compatriots by telling them I’d instructed my 6-year-old to pray, ““God bless Grandpa, God bless my brothers, and let Mom’s book sell for a movie.’’ Everyone shuddered in horror at the thought of such a fate befalling their own works.

But I like movies, I explained. And I don’t think that even ““bad’’ movies are really bad for good books.

Sure, I’m as fond of my own words as the next little dickens, but . . . well, take Dickens as an example. Not everyone who stood in line to buy the newest magazine installment of ““Oliver Twist’’ was a tenured professor. Not everyone in the pit at the Globe Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon was a toff. And I’m not a toff, either, much less a tenured professor. And for my money, a good novel can also be ““accessible’’ to anyone. Quality in books–and movies–is not necessarily measured by how few people can decipher the sentences. The best ones aren’t always the ones that have subtitles.

Good books and good intentions can result in bad movies (““The Bonfire of the Vanities’’). Sleeper books (such as Stephen King’s ““The Body,’’ which became the film ““Stand By Me’’) can be made into good movies. And dull books usually become . . . dull movies (““The English Patient’’). In some of the worst cases, the author was heavily involved. So I determined that, given the chance, I wouldn’t choose that particular way of going crazy.

Thus, when I learned that Michelle Pfeiffer and Mandalay Entertainment had optioned ““Deep End’’ for film, I considered it an occasion for rejoicing. I would get a great deal of money. More readers would be encouraged to try my books. My children would be impressed that we would enjoy only two degrees of separation from Catwoman. I decided to approach it as I would the courtship of one of my children, with detached hopefulness, giving advice only when asked. Great movie or a great disappointment, I wouldn’t end up in the closet chewing on my raincoat. After all, the guys who work for my brother at the public-works garage would gladly have such problems. Where I come from, you can either take the dough or moan about the process, but not both.

The experience did have its pangs. My first conversation with the first screenwriter convinced me that, unfortunately, we had not read the same book. But the director, theater great Ulu Grosbard, had read the book. I figured he’d sort it out. I would set the successive drafts aside (unopened), figuring that some things you’re better off not looking at too closely, no matter how deeply you care. It would be like trying to live with your kid after she was married.

When finally I went to Los Angeles to see part of the filming, I watched Michelle Pfeiffer give flesh and voice to brave, guilt-crazed Beth Cappadora, who has lost one son and is determined to lose two. And I began to cry, not from sadness (nor from the power of my own prose; I’m not that easy), but because it was wrenching to experience ““Deep End’’ as a new species.

For better or for worse, to tell a story is to surrender sole ownership of that story. Like the child who chooses a mate, a narrative in film takes on a life of its own. Having done your best, your only grace is in letting go.

A month before its release, advance buzz on ““Deep End’’ is good, and people keep asking me if I’m ““scared.’’ I don’t know quite how to respond. It’s really just . . . a movie. I’m scared of cancer, drunk drivers, chemical weapons. Even the worst rumble-tumble can’t ““trash’’ a book; they’re not that fragile. After umpty-ump overblown versions of ““Wuthering Heights,’’ the written words, torn from Emily B.’s lonely heart–““I am Heathcliff!’’–still have the keenest edge.

So, should ““my’’ movie turn out a huge dud, I will not feel compelled to put my head in the sofa sleeper. I’ll smile, remember how it was to be a widowed mom who had nightmares about living in her Chevy, and remind myself that you can control the prayers but not the answers.

That, as they say, is showbiz.