Originally published at
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Today I start work on a read through and light edit of an older novel of mine. It’s one that editors like but not enough as it is. Yay! So, while I do my read through to make notes on the story threads that need re-stitching, I’m also pretending this is not my work, and leaving myself comments and being generally ruthless and mean to Imaginary Other Writer.
Ruthless and mean for a good cause. A cleaner, tighter manuscript. A better chance of editorial interest.
And I can’t afford to be precious with words when revising, no matter how much I may imagine that my prose is perfect and wonderful and above compare. (It’s not.)
Here’s a rather embarrassing sample of what I’m doing to myself.
I mean, dear sweet baby cheeses, will you look at that original opening sentence? I’m mortified.
(also, ignore the US spelling. My agent is in America and she subs to US publishers. As much as I hate ‘gray’ and ‘color’ and ‘honor’, I must grit my teeth and pretend they look right.)