Two days ago I took apart the first 70 pages of my work-in-progress.
It is laying in half-sewn, half-taped, unglued tatters all around me, and I am in my glory.
My beta readers and editors have been at it in the night like a pack of vultures. They each took their bites. They shined their glaring lights on the stupid, the ridiculous, the unfinished. My horrified darlings squinted back. They ducked their guilty heads. But they were found. (Mmwwuhaaahaaahaaa!)
Now it’s my turn again, this time with tools like my chainsaw and chisel.
I sit for hours, thinking.
I smack myself in the forehead. Why couldn’t my eyes see all of this?
I wrote this book for myself. (I always write my stories for myself.) This revision is the one–it’ll make the story ready to share. My readers will read it, all the way through. They won’t toss it at the wall. Sure, they’ll be angry and annoyed–but the story will do that, not bad writing. They’ll be compelled to continue until they laugh and cry. They’ll wish it wouldn’t end. (Oh, this writer’s fantasy world sure is sparkly.)
Back to work.