That Last go Through

I was lucky enough to win a free pro edit on the first 50 pages of my novel. (The one I’ve been working on, not the previous 2 or 3 I trashed haha) I have time, but I’m ready to get it out and receive my knocks, so I’m going through the bastard one more time.

Thing is, I’m having fun. And not just that, but it’s more like enjoying reading while tweaking a word here or there. This always freaks me out. Either I’ve become so biased because I love the story too much, or it’s actually good. The latter is more terrifying than the former.

The last edit before you send your work off is the Hail Mary. I know my manuscript is going to be torn apart and marked to hell. I know that no matter what I do now, there will always be some improvement that can be made. What’s worse is that I know no matter how hard I work, readers may not care.

But that doesn’t stop me. If anything it keeps me going. After I get this novel going, and I will, I have the bloody business of reviving dead manuscripts that I put in the duds folder. I promised myself I would if I could save a story that I thought was beyond saving at the request of my best friend. He was right and I fixed it, so now I have to own up and start thinking about going back to reanimate the corpses of my dead books.

Some days I don’t know why I torture myself with this life. Sometimes I don’t know why I do anything. I never woke up and said, “I want to be a writer.” But here I am.

I’ve always trusted the wind to blow me in the right direction, and she hasn’t failed me yet. So I’ll get through this last go through and while I wait for the painful result, I’ll be bruising my pride by looking over previous works that have yet to find their place. (Yuck)

And while I do that, edits for book 2 of my series will need to be done. I have to finished the last 2 short stories for my collection. Best of all book 3 is waiting for me.

Despite all the stress and worries, having all of these different projects circling me helps to take the weight off of any one. If I can’t make a certain story work, I have others. It may sound hectic and crazy. I may bang my head, scream a bit, pull my hair sometimes, but I can’t escape it. This is where I belong. And I refuse to let anything scare me off.

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