Revision
"Revision" is not the same as "editing." Let's get that straight.
You'd think this is something I'd've figured out already, etymologically, in the last 14 years or so. No.
edit |ˈedit|
verb ( edited , editing ) [ trans. ] (often be edited)
prepare (written material) for publication by correcting, condensing, or otherwise modifying it : Volume I was edited by J. Johnson.
ORIGIN late 18th cent. (as a verb): partly a back-formation from editor , reinforced by French éditer ‘to edit’ (from édition ‘edition’ ).
Editor: ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from Latin, ‘producer (of games), publisher,’ from edit- ‘produced, put forth,’ from the verb edere.
revision |riˈvi zh ən|
noun
the action of revising : the plan needs drastic revision.
ORIGIN Middle English (denoting a supernatural apparition): via Old French from Latin visio(n-), from videre ‘to see.’
Revision.
To see, again.
I am seeing every chapter, every scene, every sentence again.
I am working it over to reflect the cleaner, deeper vision. NO LETTER UNTURNED! Nothing remains the same except the names and basic outline, and not even THOSE stay where I put them all the time!
In fact, I'm going to have to go back and rename all the months, or most of them, and then make them coincide with gods. Who I have to finish naming. How I thought I could get away with three of the twelve for an entire novel, I don't know. It never came up before. Or if it did, I lost that notebook...
In the meantime, it's not like I'm spellchecking and grammar correcting, although THE TWELVE GODS OF QUADIIB know that I try to do that too.
More, it's like... The whole first draft of a book comes out as jello and bone bits, and like Cordelia Vorkosigan, I eyeball the whole mess and ask, "But is it VIABLE jello and bone bits, Doctor?"
And then the second draft is this bloating, grinning, drooling, charming - but bloated, yea, massive with the world building, short on the velocity, not so hot on the structure - baby, with no more sense than to wail for more sustenance.
And then the third draft is at least a teenager with pretensions toward maturity.
ONLY I WANT THIS BOOK TO BE A COCKY TWENTY-SOMETHING ALREADY. And even a 20-something (at least human 20-somethings) Mrs. Q would call "cake-batter." I just want a CAKE! Why can't I just write a novel that's also a CAKE???
I want to quit Facebook cold-turkey for a week, when I go to Phoenix for my brother Aidan's wedding. His non-traditional legal binding to MaLinda Zimmerman. His Peace Corporeal handfasting ceremony. Which I shall be officiating.
I wonder if I can in fact stay away from Facebook. I often think about Facebook, if it's doing more harm than good. Or if it actually does more more good than harm. I vacillate.
It does not often trammel my actual writing process. In a weird way, it's a pleasure to pop on after completing a task and write, "1982 words revised. Chapter done. Now ice cream and Sherlock!" or whatever I write. Nice to know that I have someone to tell. Someone to report to.
...Even if the number of "Likes" I get, or the odd elusive comment, IS all just a bunch of eleemosynary indulgence on the behalf of my compassionate long-distance friends. Or my mother. Cheerleading. Solidarity. "Yes, Claire. We've all been there. Hurray for you. Another chapter. Of the same novel. The third time around. Wahoo."
(ELEEMOSYNARY!!! THAT'S LIKE A COUSIN OF AMAL'S WAILING LEECH CREATURES!!! Weialalaleia!!!)
On that note, I always seem to finish a novel - whatever draft - at an hour when no one's around to hug me and buy me champagne.
I'm on page 190 of 256. Single-spaced. Things are happening. We've resurrected the cub. We've had hanky panky in a graveyard. We've lit all the lamps with royal blood. We've had festivals and falcons and spies and brothels. We're about to have a flying tiger rug, a dismembered corpse, and a Blackbird Bride.
It's still a fun book.
It's getting funner, funnier, more fun, just as funniest as a festering jest, by the chapter.
But getting there...
It's just...
SO...
TEDIOUS!!!
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This Rant Brought To You By Yours Truly, C.S.E. Cooney
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