In an effort to convince myself that there are worse things in the world than slogging my way through a 629 page manuscript, covering every singe sheet of paper with red biro, I decided to make a little list. After all, think of all the people out there who'd happily swap places so they could lounge about all day in their jammies, eating caviar and sipping the finest champagne*.
So list number one:
Things I Hate More Than Editing.
Things I Hate Just As Much As Editing.
Things That Are Much More Fun Than Editing.
I should point out, because I've been asked to by my editor, that my hatred for this edit is not HarperCollin's fault. Nor is it the fault of any of its employees, or those of its wholly, or partially owned subsidiaries. No, the problem is the bearded twit in the jammies.
I am my own worst enemy, and not for want of competition either.
The people who've read Book Number The Fourth** seem to like it as it is. Yes, there are a couple of minor tweaks needed, but other than that, it's OK. So how come I'm tearing every last bloody badger-buggering sentence apart? Word by sodding word! Aaaaaargh! At this rate the book's going to take twice as long to edit as it did to write. And it wasn't as if I was coasting through the first draft either -- I sweated every last ferret-festering syllable, thinking this would make the edit much smoother.
* Not that I do that -- I can't stand caviar, it does taste all of fish and looks like lumpy motor oil. This is not a good combination when it comes to culinary treats.
** Which may, or may not have a name now, depending on what day of the week it is, and which way the wind is blowing.
Labels: Flesh House, rant, Whinge, writing