Editing a book is like transferring a mountain from one spot to another with a pair of tweezers. I hate Hate HATE it, and it probably does nothing good for the back, not to mention the poor tweezers.
It’s right about this time every night, about 10 pages into editing, that I start second guessing myself.
Is my book any good? Can I really keep a reader interested enough to read a full-sized novel??? What the hell was I thinking what I thought “Hey, you know what??? I’m gonna write a book! And it’s gonna be the best damn book in the world! And everyone in the world will want to read, hug it, caress it, and keep it on their nightstands! In 10 years, college senior wankers will have my book in their back pocket, the spine duct taped to hold it together.”
Then my Inner Dark Passenger lights up a cigarette, pours himself a scotch, and asks me all nonchalantly, “Are you gonna finish that?”
Why must you stunt my progress so much Mr. Inner Dark Passenger???? WHY????!!?!?!?!?!