Right now, I want to bitch about writing.
Not in general.
In particular.
There's this one story I've been plugging away at. It's good.
I mean, I'm pretty sure it's good.
Two people have read it. Neither of them unfriended me.
Sometime during the third draft, I came to the conclusion that it might be an even
Still not a fan of editing.
But!!!
I am a fan of making things good and better, so I went about making some of the changes my editor recommended as well as some basic pronoun swapping and language tweaking to provide a slightly more personal touch than the original narrator. I was about two thirds of the way through 10,000 words when I opened up Ye Olde MacBook to sit down and complete the first step in the process.
Did I mention I hate the process?
I'm no M. Night Shyamalan. I'm not trying to surprise you here.
I know you know where this is going.
The changes weren't saved.
Don't even ask. I absolutely DID click the image of the antique data storage device.
Twice.
Aways twice, just in case.
I was doing so well. Ignoring the platform, reading, writing, editing . . . .
All going well.
Three stories cooked al dente, two more simmering.
I even read a novel.
But now this shit with the editing. I have been avoiding that story - so near completion - for several days. I'm here now because it keeps me from having to redo lost work.
You don't suppose it's some kind of message from the great old ones that perhaps I should just leave it be? Maybe. It sure makes me want to give up. I was so jazzed too. The Tall Man will be published very soon, which leaves a vague hint of accomplishment floating around in my failure stew.
It might help if i learned to type. 35WPM is no place for a writer to hang out.
Yet, here I
The lost file is crippling. Everything I want to do, I won't do because I have promised myself to first sit down and finish that pretty good story. But I can't. It infuriates and depresses me every time I open the file. That ain't no editing headspace.
So I eat.
But now we're officially out of food (unless you count onions or corn starch). Thus I have come to this time-sucking cave of barely remembered dreams of ordinary days. Just to avoid being pissed at the goddam unsaved story.
Guess it's not working.
No, wait - this has been cathartic. Like screaming in the woods or feeding the last jiggly bit of your your nemesis to a pen of hungry pigs.
I know I'll be shoveling teeth out of here later, but I feel ready to move on.
