Now that my muse has finally stopped picking fault with my plot, it’s time to get my hands dirty and dig down into the nitty-gritty. In some sadistic way, I’m kind of looking forward to it. Editing, it seems to me, is the literary equivalent of geeky, which can’t fail to appeal to a word nerd like me. Plus, there’s something almost therapeutic in polishing your prose, feeling your writing become smoother, more vibrant under your hands.
As I begin to sink up to my neck in editing what will be my debut novel, two things are becoming abundantly clear. Firstly, the process of whipping my manuscript into the sort of shape that won’t have me cringing in embarrassment at my ineptitude as a writer will be a painful one, and will doubtless see me committed to a psychiatric ward before I’m done. Secondly, no part of my story will test my patience or my sanity nearly so much as the opening chapter.