March 2-11: Editing Madness!

I'm writing it down here so I can hold myself accountable.

I'm about 2/5 of the way done through editing Master of Nothing.  That is, my favorite kind of editing: Line edits, word changes, finding all the places where I put (INSERT DIALOGUE HERE). You know. The fun stuff.

What terrifies me is the hard editing that is to come: Cutting scenes, cutting characters, cutting subplots. "But why?" writer-me says, on the verge of tears. "The story isn't what it is without that subplot. Every good narrative has to have bird plague in it." True story.

"Because. Not every agent in the world is going to understand that you are certifiably insane." Editor-me heads off the emotional outburst, sitting stiffly in a rolly-chair (Her one solace). She taps her pen on the manuscript. It is covered in red lines. "Nobody is going to pick up this book thinking, 'What I need right now is just a nice, complex, metaphorical romp.'"

"B-but... there's some action in there... there's some plot and good relatable themes to everyone..."

"Right. After you kill off all your main characters." Dang. Another true story.

"Don't readers like that? When everyone dies?" Writer-me looks at the manuscript in dismay, watches it bleeding.

Editor-me takes a covert sip of beer. She's going to need it. "I'll let you answer that one for yourself."

And so begins the week of editing, or as I like to call, NaNoEdWe...ek. (Not an actual thing). I've got the cork board, the highlighters, pens, sticky notes, manuscript all printed out and looking pretty in a binder. I know there is serious work to be done. I just wish that it was done already... You know. When I wrote the dang thing.

Considering this is my first completed novel, I'm actually pretty proud of myself thus far. But I suppose the reason I'm writing in a blog and not editing is because I'm scared witless. I don't want to cut out whole scenes. Hell, I'm not even sure I want to read the thing again.

But it must be done.

And so, with pens and stickies and highlighters, etc. etc., in hand, on March 2 I shall begin finishing editing. My goal is to be completely done by March 11 (I do well with due dates). After that, I begin querying. That's another gauntlet in itself, but Writer-me refuses to face that yet. She's still trying to stitch up the wounded manuscript in a way that won't make her look like an over-protective mother.

What are your thoughts on editing? What are your best methods? How many drafts do you usually go through? Is it indeed possible to come out with a sliced-and-diced (*gulp*) manuscript that writer-you still likes? Blog me or twitter me! @piratequibbles

Rhythms

I think I left my cell phone in my pocket again. It’s beating rhythmic time on the inside of the washing machine. Ba-da-DUM, ba-da-DUM, DUM, DUM. In Oceanside, Grandma has to hold each of our arms to get across the sand that collapses in tiny implosions with every step. The water numbs our legs until we don’t feel the cold. We go in anyway, because we can’t look at ourselves in the mirror if we go home and say we didn’t go in the water. DUM, DUM, ba-DUM, ba-DUM, ba-DUM. The water is nothing like Neptune today. Today he is a sleepy old man, patting the shore’s arm as if to say “Thanks for holding me up, I’m going to take a nap now.” Maybe he’ll wake up later. My brother and I wade far out onto the beach, teasing little fish and anemones that make our toes tingle. With the angle of the sun splayed out over the water we look like we’re walking on it. Slosh, slosh, slosh, DUM, ba-da-DUM. Maybe I should rescue my cell phone from the washing machine instead of write about it. This beach is full of mysteries, full of lost treasures and screams. We find sea-caves and crawl into them. The sand sifts cold between our toes like the first footprints of the world’s making. The ceilings and walls are hammered-metal smooth, smoother, with slick molds clinging to them. “You can fit.” “No I can’t.” He could fit – he doesn’t have hips like mine - but he doesn’t want to, because he knows what I know and that is that there are screams in the back of those caves waiting to happen. Neither of us is Indiana Jones. Slosh. Slosh. The machine winds down and stops abruptly, with a click of the latch. Grandma is cold and tired. We take her back to the car. I’m afraid to look in the washing machine, because sturdy as it is, no cell phone could take a beating like that and survive. We crawl out of the caves and run along the beach heralding a lost Frisbee, our found artifact. Unexpectedly, the washing machine starts up again.