In honour of the Great Tambolina's birthday on Sunday I decided to take the day off. No internet, no blogging, no writing. Computer switched off and off to paint a picture. Not even lawn mowing -- that's how indolent I was. And it were LOVELY. Well, the indolence was lovely, the painting was OK, but needs some remedial work in the same way a severed limb needs a sticking plaster. However, She Who Must likes it, so that's nice.
This week though I'm performing that most dreaded of tasks -- reading my own book. Now that all the edit notes are back on ... I can't say it -- yes you can -- BROKEN SKIN... argh: the aftertaste ... I've got to actually read the thing to see what everyone was talking about. When I was doing the acting malarkey I used to hate seeing myself on stage (through the technical wonders of video, rather than some sort of bizarre mirror / out of body experience thing), and I feel much the same way about my writing. When I read my own stuff, all I ever see are the flaws. Makes me cringe. But it has to be done.
Just to make it more painful I'm trying not to edit. Yes I have a red pen at my side as I go, but I'm fighting the urge to use it or I'll still be here in a month's time. Which would be unfortunate as I've got to discuss the thing with the lovely Sarah at HC on Friday. Probably in a post-Dagger hungover haze. Me, not Sarah -- she's far too well behaved.
Trouble is I already want to start cutting things out that I know they like. So it's going to be an interesting meeting. I shall have to stock up on Fizzy Good Make Feel Nice just in case it gets violent.
They're wily these publishing types.