Writing "the end" on my first manuscript last fall was kind of a big deal for me. Previously, I was a 30,000-worder. I'd get about that far and then hit a giant wall made of ice, behind which lay no plot, only Winter, which everyone knows, is coming. But for some reason, I stuck with this one, even though it made me swear and hate everything in the whole universe. Even though I believed that no one might ever want to read it. Even though I started out with a fairly simple love story and suddenly I was knee deep in aliens.
Since sending it to busy CPs, I've started a women's fiction triology and a mid-grade fantasy, but my mind has constantly been going back to the 111k monstrosity that I dumped on their doorsteps. I didn't even let myself go back and read it, because I knew my instinct would be to start editing. I wanted to wait for their opinion.
But, this week, I caved in to my own curiosity and started reading. This turned out to be not my best ever decision, because what I encountered made me want to do this.
Right in the middle of the manuscript.
Turns out that's what my CPs had in mind as well, although not for the same reasons. My strongest sections are sandwiched in between a lot of florid exposition from a not-nearly-as-interesting character. I place the blame squarely on the doorstep of the aliens. Trust them to fuck everything up.
While this WILL help take care of my vastly over inflated word count, it's daunting to think of taking two years work apart and reworking it. In the end, I hope that something that kind of feels like it's being held together with string and blue tack will eventually feel more seamless.
So, I've saved the whole thing as is.
And then I'm going to smash it with a hammer.
Maybe after a little drinkie first.