Well, finished the rough cut of the rewrite on "Wax." I'm waiting for my field team to tell me how many logic errors I made, and how many clunky-ass sentences I constructed. It came to about 1500 words of additions, which makes the story even that much more too long to be salable. But, you know. Some of them just wanna be novelettes.
Hope they like what I've done with the place.
Congrats to misia on her sale today, by the wayside.
If I were a smart bear, I wouldn't even try to write at Bridge of Blood & Iron tonight. I would just go curl up in bed and sleep. I am so very tired of that book. So. Very. Tired. I feel the way about it that truepenny has been feeling about Mélusine lately. And she knows she's on the last pass with hers.
I still have to bloody sell Bridge, and then, assuming I do sell it, I have at least one more revision pass at it after an editor gets her hands on it. I just have no faith in this book any more. It was a pretty good book, if one with a narrow and squiddy target audience. It's getting to be a better book, wider and with more air in it.
But goddess, I just don't care. I will finish it, because I finish things I start. But all I really want from life right now is to bury the thing in the deepest, darkest trunk I can find so I never even have to think about it again. Whatever it was that went into the writing of this book is a me that doesn't even exist any more. I'm just not interested. It's like seeing the same movie, even a movie you love, for the umpteenth time. There's nothing left in here for my brain to hook onto.
And yet I will finish it. Because it's a pretty good book, even if I'm bored with it right now, and it deserves a chance to live.
This is revision pass five, if anybody is playing along at home. And Major Draft Change three. So this frelling thing is in fact engraved on my DNA at this point. If you cut me in half and fed half to each of two other genre writers, they could each produce identical copies of this book. Like planaria.
And I've discovered that I can only stand three drafts happily. Four if I have a major ideological shift. After the fourth draft, my brain has decided that the book is done. It's a geological feature: except for minor tweaking, the book is what it is. And changing it is about as hard as pushing mountains around.
Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I love everything about my job. Except those days when every word is like pissing blood. I love writing, and I love revising, and I love thinking about writing. And I can't believe I am so damned lucky that I get paid to do this.
I just want to be writing Something Other Than This Damned Book.
Page 265 of 538.
The Bataan Death march of revising pauses at the halfway point for a heartfelt whinge. Your regularly scheduled progress on conquering the planet to resume tomorrow.