I finished my book.
Did I already tell you that? It’s done. Whew. That’s a relief. All done, right? Pack it up boys, our job is finished?
Writing my book was a ton of fun. I made myself laugh. I made a bunch of mistakes that turned my story into something I didn’t expect. I learned how I write the best and when I write the best. The more words I put down the more addicted I became to writing something, anything. It became intoxicating.
The honeymoon phase is over, though, and the real work begins. I’ve been working on editing my book for several months. I even found a great writing group to help me see what’s working and what isn’t. The feedback is fantastic.
The problem is that I’ve never edited a book before and have no idea what I’m doing. No one can prepare you to edit your first book. There are times when I’ve felt like a genius, brief shining moments where I thought hey, maybe I can be a writer when I grow up. And then there are times when I open my book and feel like a cave man trying to chip small sentence fragments into my rocky cave.
Today, I’m a caveman. The chapter I’m working through right now is just killing me. It’s awful, I hate it, and I don’t know why or how to fix it. Every time I read a sentence I just want to delete my book and pick up a different hobby. Apparently that’s just part of being a writer, so I keep dragging my feet through the mud of Chapter 4. You can just go straight to hell, chapter 4.
Here’s a cat: