by Joni Abilene

My last post was a dire cry out into the far-reaching expanses of this lonely world: pressure, failure. But, as I so often do with most of my undertakings, I got over it and trudged toward the finish line like a runner with a bad knee. Last week I saw that July was looming, and as my original goal was to finish Woman in Love by the end of June, I hunkered down and wrote my proverbial ass off. It’s not often my endings appeal to me; I’m much more of an opening sentence kind of gal. But I’m fairly well satisfied with how I wrapped things up. It doesn’t feel rushed. It feels just right. And I’m happy. Now comes the really hard part of editing this monster.

At one point in my writing existence I thought editing was fun. Turn on some music, wipe the lenses of my glasses, let’s get down to business, baby. But now . . . agony. It’s like eating crab legs at a fancy restaurant one night and then being handed those same crab legs a month later. Yuck. So much time has passed. I’ve grown. My characters have grown. I can’t possibly sit here and pretend I like something that was fresh and appetizing so many weeks ago. I just can’t.

I have to. We all have to. Ain’t no one else gonna edit this sucker for me. I gotta do it myself.

Gone are the dreamy days of May and June when I woke up every morning with a purpose and a dream. Gone are the voices of fictional ghosts meant only for my brain, to be filtered through to my fingertips. Gone.

Now I have to be a hard-ass and crack a whip over my manuscript. I hate this part.