I spent the better part of a decade evolving my series, throwing words on paper, deleting, starting over, setting it aside and returning at various intervals. I am now satisfied with the results.
Until I understood I needed to edit those oh-so-rough drafts.
Five pots of sludge (my term for the coffee I make), a beta reader and ignoring my family for the past week has resulted in an almost completed MS. That is right. Almost.
My friends don't understand when I tell them, "I can't talk right now. I am in the fifth edit of my manuscript. I still have five chapters that I need to change the pacing."
"Writing isn't that hard. You are acting as if you are preparing to save a life."
In a way, I suppose I am. They don't understand you have to watch your wording, descriptions, word count, plot, characters, changes and pacing to name a few. The life? The one I created on paper. A world that exists only in my imagination but feels real to me when I zone out and type as if my life depended on it.
And I have to edit it repeatedly. Remove words and add something else. All in the hopes that I can catch the attention of an agent who may, or may not, be able to sell it to a publisher.
The second life I am trying to save - the hope I feel that perhaps, in some distant future, I can share the world I created. Hope that I can suspend a reader's reality and cause them to immerse themselves with abandon in the pages I have written.
This is the side of writing that is never explained. The roller coaster ride of editing, queries, and rejections. Even as a new world begins to percolate in the back of your mind, and a new life is put on paper.