I’ve been meaning to write a blog post on editing for awhile, but I’ve been busy . . . editing! Who would have thunk it?

I’ve said before that editing is hard work. That’s true. But I don’t think the phrase “hard work” really even begins to encompass the sort of hard work it really is. Last week, I was deep, deep, deep in editing hell. The eighth circle of editing hell, which is, I think, where writers who feel like frauds live.

I’d already added a few chapters to my novel and marked up the manuscript for line-editing, something I’ve come to think of, thanks to Saundra Mitchell as decrufting. Just marking up these changes took about two weeks in total, perhaps because the core of THE STONE SORTER was created in about a month for NaNoWriMo and was, therefore, a bit of a mess. To give you an idea, and because I always find this sort of thing interesting, here’s some snapshots of a few MS pages:

But about halfway through committing these pages to computer file, another beta reader finished the book. And suggested changes–big changes. And she was right. But what she was suggesting was a lot of work–ohgodthework–and I suddenly hit a wall, a flip-out wall, the first big one that I’ve hit since starting to write long-form fiction. It felt insurmountable. I was suddenly a hack, unable to see these things for myself–and how could I ever expect to get an agent and be published if I couldn’t see these things for myself?!

In her blog, Gretchen McNeil refers to this as the “Faux Suckitude Doldrums.” I think it’s a perfect name, she gives a completely terrific definition:

Faux Suckitude Doldrums -noun \foʊ sʌkˌɪˌtud ˈdoʊldrəmz\
A morbid state of self-imposed dejection whereby the writer/artist/musician has convinced his- or herself that they suck beyond all hope of redemption and the best and most effective course of action is to crawl under the bed and hide there until the zombie apocalypse of the coming of the Anitchrist, whichever occurs first.

Example: – “I’m thinking that I should just burn this manuscript and then cut off my hands so I can never inflict my pathetic excuse for fiction on the planet ever again.” – “Dude, put the machete down. You’re just suffering from FSD. Have some chocolate.”

In my feelings of terribleness, I decided that her writing about it was a completely great excuse to email her. So I did. And you know what’s great about YA writers, especially Gretchen McNeil? They’re really, really nice. She wrote me a totally reassuring and generous email back, the gist of which was: Quit worrying and keep writing. That evening, I wasn’t convinced. But I watched a few episodes of SuperNanny (perfect for times like these, when you don’t want to make any decisions for yourself but instead have the morality of a situation spelled out for you. Oh, those terrible parents!), slept on it, had a good conversation with my beta reader again the next morning, and realized what I had to do.

I had to keep at it, of course.

Which is where I am now. I’ve added another chapter, done some more shifting, have two or three more chapters to add, at least, before I think the knots will be untied, but I continue to press forward.

And improve. Which feels odd, in a way. After I finished this MS, I was all aflutter at how much I’d learned about novel writing in a year: that I need to know how the story ends, and the major stumbling blocks the characters face, and that I need to write a fairly clean MS to have any chance in hell of editing, and all of that. But the passages I’ve added are better written than what’s come before, and I don’t think it’s just on account of having more time to write them. Because I recently went back to a short story I wrote this summer and excised about 800 unnecessary words, easily. Editing, I realize, is a skill, too–and, like writing, one best learned by doing. Maybe that should have been self-evident. But at least now I feel okay going a little easier on myself (myself, mind you–not my drafts!), because I am, of course, still learning.

The Guardian recently posted some rules for fiction writing from fiction writers (Part One, Part Two). Some were terrific. Some I disagree with pointedly (what’s with all the internet hate? Any time I try to turn it off while writing, I just end up running to the computer every few minutes to “research.” The internet is as much a tool as it is a potential distraction). But it made me realize that I’ve learned a few things, too. I’m not full-of-myself enough to give you ten, but here’s five lessons I’ve learned the hard way:

1. Writing makes you a writer. Nothing else–not self-identification or delusions of grandeur or academic credentials. When people ask me about MFA programs now (and oh, do they ask!), I tell them that they’re a good place to make friends, drink, and avoid student loan payments. But they do nothing to make you a writer. Writing makes you a writer (and of course, plenty of MFAs don’t write any more while they’re in their MFA program than they do out of them. If you can’t write while working a desk job, you probably can’t write with a pile of papers to grade and friends urging you to go get smashed, either.)
2. A novel is a problem to be solved. Which is to say, your characters must face problems and solve them, but also you, as a writer, need to be actively engaged in resolving your characters’ conflicts too. Otherwise you just have a 300-page-vignette of word vomit, and the reader won’t care. Or this reader won’t, at least.
3. Novels are written in two places: while you have the manuscript in front of you, and at quiet moments when you’re doing something else, like going for walks or staring out the train window on your morning commute. Or in the shower. Give yourself time to be in it. This makes you a terrible guest at parties, but a much better writer.
4. Eventually, your characters will get away from you. Let them. This is scary at first, and will make you sound and feel like a 12-year-old fanfiction writer. But if your characters don’t have their own motivations, then you’ve failed to breathe life into them. Let them become their own people and shape their situation, not their actions, to drive the plot.
5. Write. When inspired, write. When in doubt, write. You’re smart enough to get through this, but smart isn’t enough. Talented isn’t enough. If you’re not working so hard it hurts, you’re not working hard enough.

Editing is rough stuff.

I’m starting to think there may have been a reason that I’ve been letting my previous manuscripts fester stew. Editing, it seems, is hard work. I began editing what was then known as Convocation the day I finished it–November 30th. Then, it was just over fifty-thousand terse words long, in ten sprawling chapters.

Now–February 1st–it’s a different beast. Now, it’s The Stone Sorter. Chapters have been reordered, passages added. The beginning was massively rewritten. There’s now a new epilogue. It currently weighs in at 62,000 words, in twenty-three chapters plus an epilogue and prologue. Miranda’s motivations have been refined, her daily life clarified. I couldn’t have gotten this far without my three most-prompt beta readers: Pat, Tarah, and Michele. Their advice was all succinct, clear, and, amazingly, it largely agreed. The book was too short, they said. What didn’t work for one didn’t work for any of them. These are three very different readers; I wasn’t anticipating such a consensus. But I’m glad they agreed. It’s sure made my job easier.

Because it’s hard enough already. I’ve moved into line edits now, smoothing my rumpled, messy sentences, fixing typos (my favorite? “He turned crispy” for “He turned crisply.”), moving, I hope, from the functional to the artful. It’s slow, painful work, but necessary work. I’m not sure that I’ll leave any sentence as it was at its inception, untouched and unedited. This is a good thing. But it’s a difficult thing. It’s so much easier to let words tumble from you, especially once you know your characters. Because they write the book. I close my eyes, ask them what they’re up to, and they tell me. My job, I guess, is to make sense of it–to make it good. That’s not an easy task.

Since, I’ve found, setting deadlines here in the blog consistently lets me beat them, I’ll say right now: my goal is to start querying by the Ides of March. Any writerly types have any thoughts for agents? I have a couple in mind, a few I’m following on the internet, but I don’t want to leave any stone–pun intended, of course–unturned.

Yahoo! Answers, should I date a girl with a missing finger?