You Should Work on Not Writing Like an Idiot

So, it’s another Monday and it’s been a rough one so far.  My allergies are hitting a bit early this season, and I can barely see the screen thanks to my bleary eyes and the constant spray of phlegm. 

               I am happy to say that I finished my first re-write of my novel.  I’m unhappy to say that I’ve already begun editing that and there are still a ton of errors.  Fortunately, I can focus more on continuity of story and characters this time, rather than the menial task of fixing all of the tiny grammar and typographical errors like when I meant to type “is” but typed “it” instead. 

               I have also asked two of my allies in arms to edit the work for me.  I don’t know about you, but for me, at least, this is a scary thing.  There’s something great about writing and finishing a work, but there’s something else hidden back behind the jubilation, like some dreadful, grungy wall-flower – who may or may not be the P.E. Coach – at a high school dance.  He’s upset because he’s stuck watching over these stupid kids while they rub against each other because no one ever danced like that with him when he was in high school even though he was the sixth string quarterback and now it would be illegal for him to dance like that with high schoolers and women his age think he smells like the inner thigh of a buffalo.  You know what I mean?  Let me explain: Sure, I finished a novel, a very rushed novel.  And now I’ve even finished editing that first draft.  That certainly is something worth celebrating.  Only now I have to let someone read it. 

               Strangely, this is a large benchmark on the way to letting (hopefully) lots of people read it.  It fills me with an odd mixture of regret, anticipation, and jock-itch.  Now, I’ve let people read my stuff before… I’ve had to.  The nature of my graduate program was mostly workshop courses in which we discussed each others' works.  But in those classes, people were still caught up on being nice.  It was the classic formula of one nice thing and two areas that need improvement.  Screw that noise.  Give it to me straight.  I would much rather find out now, while I can still do something about it, where my work falls flat.  Heck, I would even want to know if you honestly thought I should quit altogether.  Sure, I would probably ignore you, but if more than one person honestly told me to give up, I might just consider moving on to greener pastures… like KFC.  (Heck of thing to work at KFC and get free chicken all the time… maybe I should do that anyway)

               While I want honest feedback, I still have trouble detaching fully from the story.  It’s very easy to assume that “they” don’t get it because “they” are chowder heads and it has nothing to do with your perfect little tale.  I think we, as writers, like to hold that ammo in reserve just in case we’re met with poor reviews.  We love our stories, otherwise we wouldn’t write them.  I’m in the camp of literary theorists that believe that each character is a small facet of the author and is imbued with a glimmer of their creator.  So, yeah, it might hurt when someone unleashes a truckload of manure on my first or second or even third draft.  But as we all know, manure is a great fertilizer… and fertilizer makes for awesome explosions.