Some people may say I’m crazy, but that’s just talk. Do I get a bit obsessive? Not that much, but it does happen? Do I worry? As much as anyone else–okay, maybe a little more in some places.
Is the fear starting to hit me over this novel release? You betcha.
I’m into the final set of chapters, and by the end of the week I’ll find myself with two or three left to edit and format. This means that by Sunday Her Demonic Majesty will be ready for the ebook meat grinder, and by May 4th there should be a new entry in my bibliography. But the end isn’t here yet, and as I go through the story, I’m seeing sentences here and there that . . . well, they don’t set well with me.
Yes, I know what’s going on: my mind is in Issac Asimov mode, where I’m editing the story, and I see a different way of doing things, and so while I’m here I’m going to change things just a little bit, and when this is over everything will be hunky dory. Or so it should, but the Dear Doctor had a problem when it came to editing–namely, he had trouble finding a point at which to stop with some of work. It has been said that John Campbell once took a story from him, telling Asimov it was fine, and that writers have trouble when it comes to deciding when their stories are “perfect’.
I know the story isn’t perfect, and this is why I’m doing an edit and formatting, and not a simple formatting. I’m not altering plot, or cutting the hell out of chapters–in fact, I ended up adding about one hundred words to a chapter the other night, because something was in need of a bit of elaboration.
What I really need to do is take a chainsaw to my imagination, and stop seeing problems where they don’t exist.
Sure, there are things that need a bit of polish. As a writer you should see that, and fix it where it’s needed. But this morning, as I was on the Trek to the Paycheck, I started wondering if a line at the end of the chapter I was editing last night should exist, or if it should be excised. This is where I get into trouble: I see a problem, only it isn’t a problem, it’s a phantom that’s come to shake it’s bootie at me, and giggle the whole while, ’cause it’s only gonna tease, it ain’t ever going to give me a hug and tell me everything is great . . .
I’m close on this. The novel publication is only a couple of weeks away, and as much as I want to get it right, I don’t want to fall into an obsessive hole where I’m constantly thinking that the novel isn’t perfect, and I’m setting myself up for a big fall.
No problems. I know what must be done, and I’m doing it.
If I only looked as good as Juliet Starling, though . . .