Days off are supposed to be precious writing time for us aspiring novelists. In planning for this free day I imagined pages and pages of meaningful re-writes flowing easily from my fingers. Instead, I've watched two made-for-television Christmas movies (the cheesier the better), done two loads of laundry, played some hashtag games on Twitter, made friends on Goodreads, checked out the online Black Friday deals, and, in a final gasp for time away from my manuscript, answered emails from my bill-paying job. Not exactly the progress I was looking for.
I have notes and a refreshed outline for my revisions, so at the very least, I know where I'm supposed to go, but the thought of facing my current manuscript makes me ill. I feel guilty, because I'm going to have to take it apart, completely discard several chapters and add several more (nine at the current count). I spent months writing that first draft. Then I spent a couple more months making (I now know) superficial revisions, but those left the first draft basically intact. This set of revisions is going to change it completely and I feel terrible. It's like I'm saying "You suck little book. You are not good enough. You need a serious makeover." I'm like Stacy London except instead of ripping a wardrobe apart I'm tearing down my poor little manuscript.
Those people on "What Not to Wear' do always seem happier after Stacy is done with themand my manuscript will be better after I'm done. I know it will. It's a tough love kind of thing. Ok, I'm going to get to it...after lunch.
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