We open on a hot summer day. A haze of smoke from thousands upon thousands of acres of burning Oregon drifts across the sky, the smell of char and sadness present but not strong enough to drive me back inside. Not yet. I have a mission, and I’d prefer to do it outside. Ideally without the ashes of my home state falling around me, but that’s apparently too much to ask these days. I pull up a lushly cushioned patio chair, plop my feet on the edge of our fire pit, and nestle my laptop against my thighs.
[This photo was taken during today's blessedly smoke-free morning, several days into edits, but you get the idea. For those who are having a hard time imagining the smoky sky...sigh. Lucky. ]
My anxiety spikes. The first draft of my second novel glares back at me from my glinting, incredibly smudged screen. It’s like the book knows what has to be done. I’ve gotten editorial feedback, and it’s time to get down to business. My gaze falls to the word count. In the end, the number will climb, but not every member of the current tally will survive the journey. Sacrifices will have to be made, for the betterment of all. Chapters will be added, scenes will be slashed, characters will be thrust into greater battles with their inner demons. It’s going to get bloody (at least, emotionally).
It's the slashing that, unsurprisingly, cuts the deepest. I’ve spent hours on these words: writing, reading, rewriting, rereading, staring at and rewriting again. These characters have become my friends, the world a second home. I poured myself into crafting this story, and now I have to change it. The terror, dread, anxiety, imposter syndrome—they’re all real. They’ve all followed me onto the patio, poking, whispering, nagging. Ugh, the nagging. I crack open a sparkly beverage, take a calming sip of water that vaguely tastes of a citrus fruit, or the memory of one. I set the can down where I won’t kick it over and set my fingers on the keyboard. Nothing happens. I wiggle the frozen digits.
I can do this. I’ve done it before. It was hard, my brain reminds me. I’d tell it to mind its own business, but I desperately need it right now, which means this is its business. My fingers start tapping out an idea. The first line intrigues me. I don’t know where it came from. Me, my brain tells me. Fair enough. Stop boasting. I let my fingers continue the dance, waltzing through the scene that is slowly materializing in my mind. And then, a miracle occurs. Bam. I know exactly what I need to do to tie everything together. All of it. Not just in this book, but I know how to introduce plot points that will be important in the next book. My fingers pick up steam, working to keep pace with the flood of ideas now pouring through my caffeine-starved brain. Yerba mate can wait.
Holy moly, this is fun. Edits on my first book had me huddled in a corner, questioning my skills, my ideas, and just my life choices in general. I assumed the second go around would be the same. But nay. Now I’m flying. I’ve missed these characters. And how did I not think of these scenes before? Is this edit going to take me days (and days) to complete? Absolutely. Am I going to enjoy the heck out of it? My brain, still itching to be heard, tells me yes. My heart concurs.