You know that thing where the third or fourth book comes out, and you say of the writer, "She was so much better back when they still edited her and made her cut all this stupid explaining?"
Well, I liked this book a lot better--and I think it was both more believable and more fun to read--before I started explaining everything. Now, I suspect it has that ineffable air of "the author doesn't trust the reader to get it, and also, she doesn't actually believe the worldbuilding herself, so she's forced to shore it up with lots of discussion."
Ah well. The good news is, if the whole world hates it, I can retire in disgrace. And if the whole world doesn't hate it, that's also good news, because it just means that I can't actually tell a story anymore, or judge--at all--how to structure a novel.
Which, as I said before, is why I have an editor.
Everything I'm doing to this book still feels totally wrong and unnerving and out of balance, however. Which is not a problem I've had with revising novels before this year.
I dunno. Maybe I'm too close to it. Maybe I'm too set in my ways.
Anyway, twenty-eight pages into the third and final revision pass, annoyed as hell that I have things to do every day through Monday so I can't just sit down and bull through this thing--and thrashing.