That Ol’ Time Editing Feeling

You know what I hate?  Being up at five AM with thoughts running about in my head for a blog post I want to write, but I shouldn’t, because I know I’m going to piss off a lot of people if it’s written.  Then again, that’s nothing new:  I’ve had lynch mobs on my ass before because of things I’ve written, and as other writers have said, if you don’t piss off someone with your writing, you’re doing it wrong.  The thing it this post will take time, so I’ll likely save it for the weekend so I can savor the ill-will I’ll receive after it’s posted.

Or maybe not.  Maybe it’ll make some sense.

For now, however, I need to put those thoughts out of my head, because the day is starting and, baby, it’s cold outside.  I do not look forward to the walk to work, but it must be done because bills don’t pay themselves with money found growing on these now-bare trees.  It’s the way of the world, unfortunately.  It would be so much nicer to just have people give you money to do things like write.

Last night was like a trip down memory lane–one that, this time, wasn’t strewn with rubbish and the bodies of characters to drink and recreational chemicals.  Nope.  It was a good memory time, one that relaxed me and had me thinking about where I’m going with this stuff I do at night.

I got into editing a novel.

I’ve had a friend’s novel sitting on my computer for a bit, and now that my own stuff is behind me I’m setting aside a few hours every night to get it cleaned up.  Keep in mind:  this isn’t my work.  This is something I said I’d do for another person.  And doing I am.

I brought it up, threw on some tunes, and got right into work.  I’m working with a pdf, so I’m making annotations as I go along, correcting punctuation, fixing passive voice, and adding a note here and there where I feel it’s necessary to bring up an important point about the plot.  It requires reading and reattaching myself to another author’s characters who, I’m happy to say, I enjoy seeing.  Sure, there are times when I read a line and wonder, “What the hell does she mean here?”, but that’s part of the fun of editing–

"No--it's impossible to do that with a polar bear.  I think she meant walrus."

“No–it’s impossible to do that with a . . . Oi.  I thought only I wrote this kind of madness.”

The thing is I felt right into the routine.  I had music playing and a manuscript before me, and I read and made my little marks, and all seemed right in the world.  No distractions other than those I allowed myself, so the work proceeded well.  I have to take my time here, because I don’t want to miss thing, so before you know it a couple of hours are behind you and twenty pages are edited and down for the count.

It’s the first time since I finished my own work in progress that I’ve felt at easy.

That’s because this is what I should be doing.  This is what I was meant for me.