Got my line edits back from the lovely ladies at HC last night, and so far it's looking OK. No running away screaming, "Oh, GOD, what have we done?" at any rate, and that's always nice. Now I have to go through the book with a fine toothed nit comb, combing out all those nits that leech the blood from the scalp of the narrative, making it all itchy and maybe contributing to dry, flaky skin. And no one wants to suffer from literary dandruff.
I could apply some sort of medicated shampoo, but you can never tell if it's worked, and all that washing half the manuscript's head in ordinary shampoo thing is a waste of bloody time. You ever tried to wash half your head in one lot and the rest in another? If you have: GET OUT MORE! Get a girl/boy/sheepfriend and have some sex, for God's sake. There's more to life than pissing about with your hair.
Anyway, I've got the whole thing printed out on the very messy desk next to me as I type, making come-hither eyes. It's not shy, not now it knows it's going to get its hair washed. It's a dirty manuscript and it knows it.*
* Unlike my central heating, which was a dirty boiler, but a nice man came round and stuck a hoover in its intimate feminine regions and now it's nice and clean. Not so much as a love bite, you could even introduce it to your mother and not have to worry about it bringing up blowjobs over tea and cucumber sandwiches.