Sometimes, I re-read the things I write and think, "Who wrote this garbage and how did they think it was worth pressing the save button?" Other times, I get so damn excited that I get the chills.
I just re-read the first half of the first chapter of the sequel of my novel, and to my very pleasant surprise, my response was much more of the latter. All I know is that I am still churning with enough excitement to write about it, and I feel good about that.
Just gotta keep on keeping on.
Now, I'm on the fourth (yes, fourth) revision of my first novel. (I don't know why I started reading the second one, again.) I still have much work to do on the first, and I'm working at it like a madwoman to make it perfect. I finally learned that, if I'm re-reading a 3,000-word essay twenty times before passing it off to a possible publisher, then I'd better damn well do at least as much with each of my 4,000-word chapters. Aside from that, I've been trimming fat and killing my darlings, things that suck to do, but make me a slightly less sentimental sap. I know there's still a long way to go with the draft, but hopefully in the next few months, I'll be ready for my third round of queries. And if that fails, maybe I'll hire myself an editor who can slice and dice my work without regard for my feelings in the matter.
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