Some people love their first-draft. Others hate it. Some people live for their second-draft, where they can sprinkle in all the “good” stuff (now that the foundation is done).
I’m definitely a first-draft kind of girl. I love the excitement of creating characters and a world, of putting the things in my head down on paper. It’s like falling in love, where the object of my affection can do no wrong.
Editing is when reality sets in. Where my perfect story transforms into a flaw-riddled disappointment.
Unfortunately, right now, I’m working on my billionth draft of my current novel. The ulcer-inducing editing process that involves tearing apart sentences, paragraphs, and chapters that I’d once loved.
I had my “finished” book in my hands a couple months ago and sent it off to some of the members in my writing group. Since then, I’ve been waiting, feeling like I’m sitting on a giant ant pile, working on blurbs and book covers, along with the next book in this series. Just waiting.
Every writer (I think) secretly hopes they’re going to send their book off and get shining, sincere reviews. But the reality is, there is always more work to do. For me, I will be combing through these four edits, and then sending it off to a line editor. Then, and only then, I think I’ll finally be able to say I’m done.
And, of course, the truly scary part starts after that, when I’ll get reviews from people who may or may not like “my baby.”