I turned in a revision on Monday (for the next Kitty book, Kitty’s House of Horrors). This may simultaneously be my most and least favorite step of the process. On the plus side, this is the chance to take a thoughtful critique and use it to mold the book into something even better. It’s the chance to make sure the pacing and plotting are as tight as they can be, to tie threads together that I’ve maybe left hanging, to polish up the rough edges that I may have let go in the first draft. A good revision can be the difference between an okay book and a great book. (Per some of last week’s discussion, I have an editor who’s very good at revision notes, talking in detail about the problems she had with the book and places I might look at to develop, expand, and make the book even better. What’s really great, she points out the problems without imposing solutions. “You’re the writer, it’s your book, you figure it out,” she often says. I appreciate this, because while I don’t always see the problems, once she points them out I can usually figure out how to fix them on my own.)
But I pretty much hate the basic physical act of revising. Of sitting there with my editor’s notes, my manuscript with dozens of colored post-it flags stuck on problem sections (love the post-it flags!), and the file on my computer screen, trying to keep all three in my mind at the same time while envisioning something great, the book the way I would like it to be rather than the way it is. Fixing the problems starts to feel like trying to stomp on all the cockroaches in an infested kitchen. I stop being able to see the goal and only see a book full of cockroaches.
I discovered something this time around (This is the seventh Kitty book, you’d think I’d have figured this out by now, but no…): My brain turns to complete mush while I’m revising. I can’t work on anything new. I can stare at the same page of notes for an hour without actually doing anything. Computer solitaire becomes fascinating. All I really want to do is watch American’s Next Top Model. I think I may even drool.
I recreated my thought process during the worst stretches:
–I really need to change this bit.
–But I don’t wanna, it’s hard, waaaaaah.
–But the book will be better if I make this change.
–Waaaaaaaahh… let’s play solitaire!
–Okay, but then I need to work through this bit and finish the damn thing.
–Frak! hate solitaire, stupid game.
–I don’t want to look at this manuscript anymore. It’s too hard.
–Let’s walk the dog instead!
–Yay, walk the dog! Then I’ll fix it when I get back.
**walks dog. returns to computer**
–Crap. Don’t wanna, it’s hard. Let’s play solitaire.
Of course, I feel better once I actually just buckle down, make the changes, and finish the damn thing. But gaw, until I actually do it, vacuuming looks like so much more fun.
I’m so happy to get this out of my hair so I can work on something new. I’m so much happier than I was two days ago.
