I edited 50 pages today and I think time turned into treacle temporarily. Proofing was easy, quick, enjoyable even. Now, on the second sweep around, I'm moving at the pace of an elderly, arthritic snail who is crawling with deliberate tardiness just to irritate its impatient whippersnapper grandchildren. It goes something like this:
Ponder subliminal theme created accidentally.
Notice massive black hole in middle of plot.
Eat brownie and call it a day off from working out.
Feel eyes atrophy due to Staring At The Same Words They Have Been Staring At For Two Years.
And this is only the first edit. It's been so long since I had to do this I'd forgotten the pain - it was enough for me to shelve my first novel (along with the desire to scrap and entirely rewrite it, of course). But that's a lame and wholly unproductive view. If I can get this done, I can get it out to my
minions willing reader volunteers and start snooping for agents.
It's just making me itchy... 50 of 250 pages. Meh. Slog on.