Issac Asimov was the first person who ever told me I could write. It was in a lovely rejection letter. He loved the story, he explained, but his magazine couldn’t use it. In fact, he felt no magazine would dare print it. But, I could definitely write.
Upon reflection, I decided he was right. Still, perhaps one day the universe will grant me a subtle jest and I’ll slip it out there. It hasn’t in the 40 years since I got that note.
My wife, I am told, informed all her friends that I could write. What she told me was that I didn’t know how to edit. Unfortunately, she was also correct. It’s the curse of associating with intelligent people. They are usually right.
I blithely assumed I would breeze through the edits of my first novel in a week, two at the most. Naive doesn’t begin to cover it. However, I set myself a deadline (and extended it once when I realized just how much I needed to rewrite) and that day has arrived.
For the past few days I have been twisting the phrases to try and make them tighter, but I have finally reached the point where I have to let the baby go.
I was going to give myself time to relax before plunging into my next project, but tomorrow begins the Nanowrimo July Summer camp, and I already committed myself to it before I discovered my weakness for past tense and excessive glue words.
I have other commitments that must fit into my writing schedule so the entire process should be a first rate challenge.
I have the idea for the book, I have some notes. I go to sleep now. In the morning I shall arise like the Phoenix and blaze across the keyboard.
I will sleep until the dog annoys me into getting up and feeding her. I’ll stumble around having half-formed ideas until I get my first cup of tea. Then I will try and remember where I stashed the notes on the story.
I go to dream of airships, swordplay, and beautiful women with single shot pistols…
I hope all of you have an equally pleasant evening.