Correction: nothing makes me queasy like trying to force editing.
It's a bit like bashing your face against your keyboard for all the good that does you, everyone and their mother tells you editing is a natural part of the writing process and necessary to make a book better. I know this, I see this, I see all the shit I have to fix in my piece. Doesn't make it easy.
Editing my work brings out my inner sado/masochist. Oh, this passage isn't good enough? Let me just slit my wrists and make the corrections with ink made of my blood and tears. You get the idea.
I have been systematically tearing apart the novel for months now, my edits have edits. I have reached the final few chapters and walked face first into a wall of procrastination. The rational part of my brain is screaming "What the hell are you doing?? This shit is almost done! Once you fix all the big stuff, it's just finessing from there!!!" To quote that lovable, annoying redneck "get er done!"
"Ah, but it's not that simple" says the inner artist. "I must recreate whole chapters of this story to fix it, and I am le tired."
My inner artist might be a little French.
I have kept myself writing by turning to other projects, I am happiest when I'm creating. I have given myself another poke of motivation by including these edits in my pledge for Clarion, hoping to trick myself into doing them for a good cause -_-.
The hilarity of this situation is I love editing...for other people. I do love helping a story come to fruition, I love helping someone mold and shape it into a flowing work of art.
The perfect partnership would be to find someone exactly like me. We shall edit each other's work and make millions...millions I tell you!
*cackle*
Well, that rant is over, guess I shall go back to banging my head on the desk til this chapter fixes itself.
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