I’m thinking of the last few weeks as The Big Push, but I’m not doing anything so brave or useful as child birth. We’re in the business of making books, not babies. I’m in my last edit, and because this isn’t the first time I’ve said that, I have to really mean it this time. Here’s hoping it won’t have a cover (or contents) only a mother could love.
I can feel myself getting sloppy. I’m close enough to fog up the glass in this manuscript, and it’s time either to draw a heart with some poor bastard’s name in it or a curse word. Maybe both.
I find chapters too long or too short and they’re like bowls of porridge I think I’d rather throw at the wall than eat, strings of adjectives and orphaned commas like the seven fucking dwarves. Happy, Dopey, Sleazy, Garfunkel. Less telling and more showing, but not too much. Keep it in your pants.
At least until book two.