It has occurred to me over the last few months that I am embroiled in an illicit affair of the heart. An affair so intense that it truly feels wicked. However, it is not adulterous…at least I don’t think so, anyway. I’m talking about my current manuscript. You know, the one I finished back in January. The one that survived numerous revisions through February and March. The one I’ve tried to stay away from for the entire month of April and parts of May. Like a lover that you yearn to touch constantly, to help, to soothe and comfort. (Now do you see what I mean?)
I’m not sure how many writers out there are like me, but I have a compulsion to fix, improve, fix, improve…almost to the point of fixing unbroken things just for the sake of fixing! For me, the ideal situation would be this: I finish my novel, do numerous revisions, final edits, etc., take it immediately to a Starbucks or a library, leave the book on a table, and walk around outside while an Agent slips in and leaves my contract and first advance in a discreet brown bag, and takes my book away to the Publishing machine to touch the lives of millions. Then my work would be safe from my constant whittling.
Besides, I have two other lovely manuscripts in progress that are longing for my attention. I just hope my wife doesn’t get jealous…