Editing, Editing, Editing

Can’t say this enough. Editing!

I hate editing. Editing is the bastard child of writing. How did Hemingway write so many great novels when he was plastered all day long? I can’t edit when I’m sober.

Editing is like a starving artist who decides that their “deep” artistic side needs to suffer in order to further their talents so they walk across broken glass barefoot. And when they’re done, they turn round and do it again for the sheer fun of it. I think I would rather not have this bubbling urge to write. Then I wouldn’t have to edit my novel…EVER.

But, as it is, that hunger to write isn’t going to cure itself. So, now that I’ve complained to you long enough, I should go find something else to procrastinate with. I’m thinking the walls need a new coat of eggshell. What do ya think?

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