Saturday, April 7, 2012

Editing madness or is it addiction?

Man, it's sort of overwhelming, isn't it?  Sure it is.  I mean, look, there are a lot, A LOT, of reasons that I am not published.  Maybe one of those reasons is that I am a terrible writer.  Sure, that's totally possible. but let me stick to the verifiable facts, because the truth is I don't think I'm a terrible writer.  (Considering I'm one of the total four human beings that have read my work, that would qualify as the most self aggrandizing thing I have ever stated, and I don't have the balls to say I'm good, just not terrible.)  How does one accumulate the amount of time necessary to attempt traditional publication?  Twenty years ago, (whoa, whoa, whoa, tell the truth) thirty years ago I got married and then I had two children, and then I got divorced and my mother passed away unexpectedly; I got my first grown up job to support my two children whilst simultaneously turning into an alcoholic, etcetera, etcetera.  What I'm getting at is that I had a lot of life happen and I've lived every inch of it.  Throughout it all I continued writing and they, the children I gave birth to and the characters I created, saved my sanity, but I did not have the time to attempt the process of becoming "oh are you published?" 'yes, I am'.  Not that all it takes is sand, that's the least of it.  Because in addition to existing just like everyone else, we can say (the royal we obviously) that we rarely gave ourselves the opportunity to be discovered, or to get involved in writing groups, or to give a flying Kung Fu kick about other aspiring writers.  It was mine mine mine all mine.  Insane, you say? The royal you, obviously.  because you said that you wanted everyone to read you and get to know you.  How can they do that if you are hiding the planet behind a really big moon?  Really big and painfully shy and contradictorily, self possessed and ego maniacal.  Who are you talking about? 

Yeah, now that I think about it, maybe I am crazy.  I found though, in these past few years of my assent into middle aged-ness, that my feelings aren't unique, pretty much about anything, especially about feeling unique.

I'm in the middle of reviewing these chapters.  There are 300 pages so far, double spaced with too many words that I need to cut back on because newbies shouldn't have that much to say (I hated when I read that, but it's the freaking truth.) This is my last time going in.  I've said that before, but I need to let go of her.  I need to set her free.  And with her, me too.

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