Despite the awe in some people's eyes when I tell them I have 500 pages of a novel written, being a writer is not glamorous or thrilling--at least most of the time. And right now it's heartbreaking and confusing, as I'm reading the new draft through.
I've written these 500 pages over seven years time and my writing style has changed markedly. I think for the better. So that means I have a hundred or two hundred pages of writing that needs severe editing. Yuch. Makes my tendonitis starts to act up just thinking about all the mouse clicks.
I do actually enjoy the editing process sometimes, it's just that there SO much to do and it looks to take SO long.
I've got a self-imposed deadline of having this ready to go to an agent by June 1. I'm going to have to be single-minded to make it.
The good news is that it's not so hard to read it as the first time through. Oh, what dread and fear filled me the first time--the doubt and worry that I'd poured tons of time and pounds of money into a waste. The critical voice shouting in my head over every single sentence.
At least this time I know some parts of it, perhaps most of it, is good, maybe very good. I've had that affirmed by other established writers so I repeat their compliments to the critical judge in my head.
The hard part is deciding where to cut whole sections and plot turns, for the sake of brevity. Five hundred pages it long for a first novel and for this generation that steers clear of War and Peace and goes for Jodi Picoult novels and two hour movies.
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