Killing Your Darlings

We're all supposed to do this. Go in with a blood-red pen and slash through all the words that we love--GOD how we love them--but which aren't doing what we need them to.

Maybe they're part of a hilarious scene that connects to nothing else in the larger work.

Or lyrical and challenging and lovely but the character they're describing/being spoken by should be cut from your MS.

Or they're pretty-good, and have one REALLY awesome metaphor buried somewhere in the creamy center, but the entire surrounding scene is just unnecessary, under-baked novel-dough. It's the incipient spare-tire of your novel. Verbal saddle-bags.

The Telltale Laptop

It's sitting there.

I can feel it looking at me. Accusing me of the darkest misdeeds, the foulest of sins. Staring through me with its dead, soulless eyes, the light on the edge pulsing rhythmically...

ONoff.

ONoff.

ONoff.

DEAR GOD, WILL I LIVE THROUGH THE MADNESS I'VE CREATED BY CLOSING THIS LAPTOP?????

Playing Dress-Up

So I'm in the middle of revisions right now (as you likely know, since I've mentioned it about every third minute since they started), which means I'm doing what any reasonable writer would:

I'm finding other things to do.

One of those is constructing my frankly AWESOME Halloween costume, in which I:

Will transform into this: 

Let me tell you all, so far I'm NAILING it. 

But that's not really the point of today's word-vomit. Today's barely-formed idea is that as authors, we're basically just playing pretend, constructing costumes that we hope pass muster, day in and day out. 

REVISIONS.

So the current young adult book has probably been revised fully 10 times, partially a couple dozen more. I got it to a point where I wasn't happy with it--when is anyone ever happy with it?--but where I knew that I no longer knew what to do with it.

This is when you're supposed to query, right?

Long, boring, recognizable-to-all-authors story short, I was ready to leave it on the back burner, at least for a little while, because I couldn't fix it alone.

Then I really and truly lucked out. I got COPIOUS notes on the manuscript from an agent, the kind of notes that make yet another revision feel worth it, since I have someone confirming my instincts about where it's going off the rails, and I was able to move it onto the front of the stove again (has anyone ever tried to extend this metaphor beyond the back burner before? It's a little awkward...).

Which brings me to:

REVISIONS ARE THE HARDEST THING EVER.