I’m editing. I’m learning to like it. I’m also learning to lie about liking editing.
Editing is a challenge; I like the result, but the process is a royal pain.
My Beloved says I do the same things when I edit my manuscripts: I simply abandon my sanity at the keyboard and begin shouting at shadows. Eventually I will find a passage that gives me grief and I’ll start complaining about it. Then I’ll threaten to abandon the whole damn thing in a fit of pique. This latest fit has lasted about two weeks. I try to write or edit or blog, but nothing comes of it.
The problem sits there and stares at me like a recalcitrant teenager, sulking in the nearest corner, daring me to come close enough to be scorned and shamed into a pile of ashes.
And then? I start talking about it. Non stop yammering, verbally sorting through all the crap until something falls out and makes room for an idea that is a much better fit, and that is when I start to like editing.
The story begins to settle into place.
Ideas and thoughts begin to flow and mesh.
I like the characters again.
I like the story again.
I like writing again.
…and I ALMOST like editing.