I’m blogging now, not because I have some hilarious thought or incident to share. Nope. I’m blogging because I’m so sick of editing. I’m working on another edit of my Young Adult novel, Screwing Up Time. My hope is that if I do a really great edit, I might land a literary agent even though the publishing industry is in freefall. (BTW, whenever a massive publishing house like Houghton Mifflin Harcourt decides not to acquire any new books, the situation is bad. I used to work for Harcourt back before I had kids, which was a long time ago, and doesn’t mean they look at my work.)
At any rate, I’m editing yet again. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve edited this book. The fun part of writing is, guess what, the writing part. Writing is amazing—it’s like an addictive drug. (Caveat: the only addictive drug I’ve ever had is caffeine, but coffee is a legal stimulant so I’m good.) Writing is way, way better than coffee—why else would people write fiction, the chances of getting published are non-existent.
But the down side of writing is editing. Editing is like slamming your finger with a hammer repeatedly—it’s only great when you’re done, but then your finger still hurts. See, I can edit and edit. But then, you can always edit again (and you probably should). The accepted wisdom is that any writer can write, but the great writers know how to edit.
So, here I am slamming my hammer onto my finger, telling myself that it really doesn’t hurt. Maybe what I need is a new and better hammer. Yeah, maybe a rubber mallet would work better…