Death by a thousand edits

I'm working on the first draft of book five in my Olivia Callahan Suspense series. The first draft

is, by its nature, a mess-in-progress. Some people refer to it as "WIP" which means work-in-progress, also applicable, because writing is hard work. However, my mess-in-progress is indeed a mess. This does not deter me. It simply makes me more determined to finish the story because I can't wait to get it all down, then go back and clean it up.

The real work starts AFTER the first draft is finished. The first edit is a real eye-opener. The second edit is a tiny bit more encouraging. The third pass, I start to think: wait, this is coming together, persevere! Next comes A BREAK. Getting my eyes off the manuscript helps. By this time, I cannot edit this story with any objectivity, and for a week or ten days I stay away from my desk. (Or try.) When I go back, I see my story through fresh eyes and begin more edits. After I'm somewhat happy with it, I send it out to select beta readers for their input regarding plot development. Then I do a rewrite accordingly. This process continues until my deadline snatches it out of my cold, reluctant fingers.

The truth is, writers keep on adjusting, changing plot points, copyediting, checking, formatting, and wringing their hands over the final draft until it borders on insanity. Similar to having a baby, it takes roughly nine months to complete a first draft and clean it up well enough to send to my editor. Nine months of struggle, swearing, sweating, and feeling like I'm carrying around an elephant. After the birthing event, I'm so in love with the product that I forget the previous struggle. (Almost.)

Thirteen years ago, when I first actually sat in my office chair with the intention of writing a book, I became saturated with lofty thoughts of artistic virtue and creative opportunism. I'd grasp my purpose with both hands, I told myself; I'd create something that would stand the test of time...a legacy! I sat down at my desk, running my palms over the smooth wood, blood pumping through my veins, excitement warming my chest. The moment to begin had arrived.

I put my hands on the keyboard.

Took my hands off the keyboard.

Put them on the keyboard.

Took them off the keyboard.

Felt my forehead knot in confusion.

I chuckled at my nerves and started typing. After I rewrote the first page about twenty times, it hit me. I had NO IDEA what I was doing. I wrote the whole book anyway, gangsta-style, like I had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of my mouth and a tumbler of scotch at my elbow. Since I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't know what not to do. Which was fine. First-book-syndrome is a thing. We all go through it, and most of our first books are a learning exercise, not a best-seller.

At that point, I didn't know I had to edit the darn thing a thousand times, or that I'd live with this book for five years before it was accepted and published. I had no idea how to query a publishing house or an agent. But, I stuck with it.

Looking back, I have to laugh. If I'd known how much work it really was, I doubt I'd have tried at all. But that's just it - when a writer finally lands a publishing contract, the faint flicker in his belly becomes a wildfire. The muck and mire of putting words on the page doesn't matter anymore. We realize all those interminable edit passes make the story better. At some point, the love affair with creative license and artistic endeavor falls by the wayside, replaced by skill, a decent plot, hard work, and collaboration. We become dead to ego, dead to self, and alive to the story beneath our fingertips. When that happens, we realize that maybe...just maybe...we should keep going.