I’ve been hiding under a rock for a while. Mostly, I wanted to get away from the wreck that is my first-and-a-half draft of Tiny Shadows. So I escaped writing altogether for a few months. It seems to have had a positive effect, as I’ve been diligently editing since my sabbatical ended. So far, fewer tears than words have been shed, which is, I think, as it should be. I’m actually making decent progress, too: I’m nearly 1/3 of the way through it, which is more than I can say for the first attempt. I picked the book back up in late December and have been getting through a scene to a chapter each night. At this rate, I should be finished by the end of February. In fact, let’s get that on the books:

I will finish the second edit of Tiny Shadows no later than February 28, 2017.

And then, I expect, there will be several edits to come after that. But a funny thing has happened during this edit: I’ve realized that the next edit isn’t going to be so bad. And the one after that? Even easier. The story is improving with each sweep, and eventually I’ll be at the stage where all I really need to do is clean up grammar and tweak the sentences to my liking. This feeling of relief about the potential ease of edits to come is one I haven’t experienced until now, and it has given me a great sense of hope as I edit and re-write.

Still, it continues to be disheartening to know that the novel I wrote in two and a half months is turning into a two-year project. I have a great deal of pride in my ability to write a 90,000 word novel in such a short time. It’s a hit to the ego to realize what a pile of shit it was.

Editing is sort of a self-inflected torture for me. The best way I can describe the feeling is by comparing it to exercise: I know the novel isn’t going to get any better unless I do it, but I freaking hate doing it.

I could write two-month novels for the rest of my life, but let’s face it, they’d all be sweatpants-wearing , Cheeto-eating, slobs of books that never got a date with a cute agent, much less a sexy, glossy cover to dress it up for its debut on a prominent endcap at the bookstore. So I guess, until that magical novel diet shake comes out, this book needs to sweat some words.