I'm in the weird stage of editing (somewhere between 'fuck this shit' and 'how on earth did I ever think I could be a writer') where I've read my own words so many times, that I'm sure I no longer possess the ability to notice my own mistakes-my eyes have grown too accustomed to my own writing. The horrible part about this is that I'm only on my third draft. 'Only?' you ask. Yes. Only. I estimate that I have at least two rounds of editing left before I even can even toy with the idea of sending it to a professional editor-you know, the kind that edits for a living? I have hopes though, that my WIP(work in progress) will be fully edited, wrapped in a bow and sent off to the nice little boys and girls waiting to fill their kindles at Amazon around the end of the year.
The way I see it, editing is like that guy you meet in a bar that you bring home later to fuck so you can get over your ex. Sure, now that you're seeing him in a light brighter than the bar's deceiving dim lighting, you can see that he isn't as handsome and rugged as he seemed to be. He's just rugged. And yet, he'll do. Why? Because you have to get under him to get over that cheating scumbag of an ex, right? So what do you do? You commit yourself to the ride because it's just got to be done.
The way I see it, editing is like that guy you meet in a bar that you bring home later to fuck so you can get over your ex. Sure, now that you're seeing him in a light brighter than the bar's deceiving dim lighting, you can see that he isn't as handsome and rugged as he seemed to be. He's just rugged. And yet, he'll do. Why? Because you have to get under him to get over that cheating scumbag of an ex, right? So what do you do? You commit yourself to the ride because it's just got to be done.
