Today, I sent off the last chapter of my 345 page novel to my editor. I wish I could say that it is exactly the way that I want it already. But what I have found is that in places where it feels right it usually isn't far off. But in those places where I feel most confused are the spots where my returned chapter will hold all green ink. Questions about a scene, concerns about reality, prods that I've been lazy and instead of describing what is happening glossing over it.
Every time she sends me the chapter back, I dip slightly into a depression. By that evening, I say, "She doesn't know what she's talking about." By the next morning, I open the file again and look at the sea of green ink staring back at me. By that evening, I'm ready to work on it.
Word by word, line by line, I go slowly and review her comments and also what I really wanted the flavor of this scene to taste like. Within a week, I have something even better than I thought possible.
Here's a gown that I worked on for three days, watercolors and ink. It is not up to the caliber that my daughter's gowns are. But it was fun to do.
Every time she sends me the chapter back, I dip slightly into a depression. By that evening, I say, "She doesn't know what she's talking about." By the next morning, I open the file again and look at the sea of green ink staring back at me. By that evening, I'm ready to work on it.
Word by word, line by line, I go slowly and review her comments and also what I really wanted the flavor of this scene to taste like. Within a week, I have something even better than I thought possible.
Here's a gown that I worked on for three days, watercolors and ink. It is not up to the caliber that my daughter's gowns are. But it was fun to do.
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