In complete opposite of most day-to-day writing post things, I'm cheering on a decrease in wordcount. Yes, today marks the start of the great Book 3 editathon. When I was down in London last week I spent a very long lunch in a weird little gastro-pub in Hammersmith, talking through the editing notes and what I wanted to do with them. Which was a tad more radical than anyone had suggested. I had become a loose cannon, wanting to rip out characters and sub plots like a mad man, crazed on spaghetti with clams, chilli and garlic, and glasses of cold white wine.
And today I started. Book 3 (Broken Skin, it's called Broken Skin, go on, say it! -- Noooo! You can't make me!) had 153,191 words in it at the start of the day, and by the end (which is pretty much now) I'd managed to execute 3,445 of the little bastards. Not bad for 47 pages. Take that words! Bwahahahahahaha! See how they run screaming before my mighty red pen of DOOM!
Hopefully tomorrow will be a massacre of similar proportions, but I doubt it: I have to go see the dentist. Damn this frail human body with its pointy teeth and oh so sensual beard. *ahem* well, just a regular check-up thing, but it takes time away from the edit. And we can't be doing with that, can we?
I had a moment of utter panic on Saturday when I updated my calendar with all the things I've got to do this month and saw how little time that left for editing. Then looked at next month.
Then there was screaming.
In other news, I still have no idea who won the best new novel at Thrillerfest: Adam, Mark, Will, or David. I'm pretty sure it's not me, or someone would have emailed from the ITW to let me know. So it's got to be one of the others. BUT WHO?!? All the people who went, and who I thought would post results haven't. And neither have the ITW. So God knows what went on. Maybe some vast conspiracy involving trout and trousers and promising never to speak of this again?
Still, enquiring minds and all that...