So I’m revising the sequel. I have this plan whereby I will revise it really, really hard all month and then hand it over to The Amazing Editorman at the end of April.
No, really, I can do this. It does mean I’m going to be neglecting you a bit, but that seems a small price to pay for good sequel. I do regret that my fabulous YES sandwich post is still just half a sandwich, but this is the price we pay for having a mere 24 hours in a day. Something has to give, always.
The sequel is at that stage I think of as the Terrible Twos. I pushed through painfully to the end, which was a bit like giving birth, and now the manuscript is teething and screaming and pulling my hair. It has full-body tantrums daily and will not, under any circumstances, take its nap.
What makes it harder, weirdly, is that I have a very selective memory regarding its older sister. I remember that book being a joy to write. A joy! It always said “please” and it never dumped its dinner off the side of the high chair and its diapers were filled with FRESH-CUT FLOWERS, damnit. Not at all like the little devil-spawn I somehow popped out this time.
I look at this book and say, “Why can’t you be like your older sister?” And then it pukes on me.
But of course, I’m misremembering. The first one had its long stretches of misery too. It never ate or slept; it was so ugly we had to stick a really big sunbonnet on it when we went out. It did grow up, slowly — and now I’m remembering its adolescence and feeling a little bit queasy. There’s still so much fun in store. I can’t wait.
To those of you now thinking, “Gee, writing sounds like the most miserable profession in the world!” I would like to just say: it is. And, rather like parenting, it is also the best. When it is good, it is very very good. When it is bad… AHAHAHAHAHA.
But you see, counter-intuitive as it may sound, writing this made me laugh, and laughing gives me hope. I’m actually looking forward to getting down to work and civilizing that beastie just a bit more today.