Whenever I start to feel stuck on a part in my book, I go back to the beginning. Occasionally this the cause for inspiration and pride, but usually it prompts the fervent click of the backspace button. I have a love/hate relationship with editing. In the past, I’ve seen it as a burden, as a shameful admission of imperfection. Most of my papers in high school and college were turned in completely unedited, unadulterated, pure. This was always a point of pride for me. I’m a first draft girl. I doubt I’ll even look back at this post. It wasn’t until my senior year of college that I realized that editing wasn’t a reflection of failure. A good writer should be able to review their work and willing to make changes. It’s like disciplining a child- as much as you’d like to avoid it, it has to be done to keep them from turning into a monster.
It sucks. Going over the first part of my novel, I’m realizing that there are parts that are way more show than tell. As much as I love the way certain parts are written, they show my hand. It’s not fair to my characters (or my readers, if any) to drop word bombs like that. So I’m cutting. I’m rewriting, leaving the mystery. I’m revamping too. I’ve realized that my main character is coming off a little too altruistic, which isn’t what I want. I want a flawed human being in search for herself, not an empty headed ingenue. So I’m shaping, I’m changing, I’m editing.
And I’m getting somewhere, which is what matters.