It seems that editing is by far the second biggest drag about writing. The biggest being the futile attempt to get people to read my books. I suppose number three would be the actual writing, but at least that part is fun. Actually, blogging is the 3rd most annoying part, writing comes in fourth.
The thing about the editing that is so annoying is that regardless of how many times I go over what I’ve got down on the page, there are errors and things to be corrected. There is another way to write a sentence, something more clever, wittier, something. I’m sure I could go through an endless number of edits and never be truly happy with what I’ve got down. There will always be some voice in the back of my head saying that I’m a shit writer (I might just be) and I should have quit yesterday. To quote (then) Professor Hank Moody: “If you can do anything else with your life right now, anything at all, I think maybe you should do that.”
What the fuck do I know. I punch some keys and shit ends up on paper, I run a red pen over it for a while, fix the stuff on the computer, print again, red pen again, fix on computer again and then Amazon here we come. I did give Book I another once-over before putting it into print, but now I’ve noticed that there are freaking typos and errors in that fucking thing. Ugh.
Hey, on a positive note I met some chick yesterday whose sister is a reader of potential TV shows and whatnot in LA, so I stuffed a book into her outstretched hand and begged her to mail it off to her relation. You never know.
Anyway, we’re not drinking this month. Not sure if that is helping or hurting the creative process, but it’s time to crack open another Beck’s Blue, and get back to the salt mines.