Feb. 6th: Editing
Editing. What a pain. Seriously, it sucks.
Things should be way different. Things should be like a major breeze. The story that's been bouncing around in my head should have flowed out like honey on a buttermilk biscuit. Instead, it hit the pasture like a steaming pile of poo-poo.
I'm betting many of you, that enjoy writing, have felt like that very same way. The first draft screams at you, demanding to get the hell out and hit the page. But once the coffee buzz settles and the cramping in your fingers subsides from a palm load of Tylenol, you realize that Hemingway was right:
Truer words were never spoken. And never so eloquent.
But that should never stop you from spilling out that bundle of joy eating at your psyche. Stories are a splattering of color and textures that demand life. They are starving. They require oxygen and tasty treats. They crave sunlight. And when they hit the sun, you as the expectant parent, recoil at the first sight of the child wondering what went wrong in your gene pool.
Harsh. Parents love their children no matter what. Well, good parents do. I love my kids. They're a product of me. I helped shape them into who they are today. I gave them love and support as I watched them grow. Stories are just the same.
As I sit, staring at the printed pages, at the monitor where my offspring lies cooing and playing with her toes, I see that there is such beauty in her. Once I clean her up and dress her in something warm and fluffy she's going to be a doll. This story of mine is going to take some serious parenting but like any good dad, she's worth it.
Time to quit bitching about the editing, pull up my big-boy pants and deal. Time to be a good daddy.
Things should be way different. Things should be like a major breeze. The story that's been bouncing around in my head should have flowed out like honey on a buttermilk biscuit. Instead, it hit the pasture like a steaming pile of poo-poo.
I'm betting many of you, that enjoy writing, have felt like that very same way. The first draft screams at you, demanding to get the hell out and hit the page. But once the coffee buzz settles and the cramping in your fingers subsides from a palm load of Tylenol, you realize that Hemingway was right:
The first draft of anything his shit.
Truer words were never spoken. And never so eloquent.
But that should never stop you from spilling out that bundle of joy eating at your psyche. Stories are a splattering of color and textures that demand life. They are starving. They require oxygen and tasty treats. They crave sunlight. And when they hit the sun, you as the expectant parent, recoil at the first sight of the child wondering what went wrong in your gene pool.
Harsh. Parents love their children no matter what. Well, good parents do. I love my kids. They're a product of me. I helped shape them into who they are today. I gave them love and support as I watched them grow. Stories are just the same.
As I sit, staring at the printed pages, at the monitor where my offspring lies cooing and playing with her toes, I see that there is such beauty in her. Once I clean her up and dress her in something warm and fluffy she's going to be a doll. This story of mine is going to take some serious parenting but like any good dad, she's worth it.
Time to quit bitching about the editing, pull up my big-boy pants and deal. Time to be a good daddy.
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