Short one today. Sort of a travel day. And hoorah, I’m sending off my book to be edited. It’s an interesting experience. I’ll try to encapsulate it quite briefly, if I might.
First, you’re relieved. The words “the end” look good enough to roll up and smoke after working on a manuscript for five months. By the time you get through a draft, there is literally nothing more you'd like removed from your gaze. It’s a time to get it out of your face. When it comes back, it’ll be all different, it’ll have a new tan. It’s met new friends, hung out with different people. At that point you’ll want it back—absence and the heart and all that.
Second, you’re worried. Me and this little tale have been going head-to-head in the confines of my own safe space for so long, I can’t be sure if it’s any good. What if it’s not? Answer: That will suck. Only one way to find out.
Here’s the deal. Parts will suck. Others won’t. I’m not going to cry about it, either way. My hope is that my editor doesn’t want to pull his eyes out from sheer boredom. Editing is a tough line, especially if the starting material is useless.
Oh Lord don’t let it be useless.
OK. Sorry for the meandering and seemingly pointless post today. The good news is, I’ll have a moment to breathe. Going to the beach. There’s water and a different perspective and both of those things are good. For some reason talking about the beach made that last sentence extremely dry and literal. You know, like Hemingway. He liked the beach and saying things dryly like that. I’ve always wanted to ask out girls the way he writes. “You have yellow hair. I’ve been partial to yellow hair, fonder of it than other types of hair. It would be best if we went and had a meal and drinks together. The suffering in my life would be less significant if that could happen. To say meeting you has been nice would be to say a thing that is true.”
He wouldn’t do that. That was weird. But hey, so was A Farewell to Arms.
Cheers maniacs. Got to go get my feet wet. See you after.