I’ve never actually done this before. Editing my own fiction, I mean. Back when I was a teenager and writing novel-length extended short stories about angst, imagination, isolation, and vampires (you had to know that was coming), seemed like a better way to fill the time than, say, attending high school…. Well, I’d write it all out longhand, maybe make one or two minor changes – usually spell-check assisted – while typing them into WordPerfect for Windows on my mum’s creaky Compaq, and then get to work on another “book” while the first one was shaking the dust off the walls via Okidata dot-matrix printer.
Yes. I’m that old.
So far, it hasn’t been as horrible as I expected. The Project was written in puzzle pieces, from the kind with lots of blue space between images, and it’s the blue spaces I’m trying to piece together, now. A couple of hours a day. Squinting at the different hues of blue among different stacks of pieces that look almost-but-not-quite-the-same, and maybe touching up an edge here or there with Crayola Blue Lagoon and red safety scissors.
It’s taking a long time. My “before Christmas” estimate is WAY off. The writing, though, still feels like flying. Blue sky flying, which is the coolest. I figure as long as I can hold onto that, the story will be a-okay…. right?