This week I've been finishing the final edit of The Immortals, and I feel as though I've just been spun around in a cement mixer. I'm dizzy and a bit bruised.
This has nothing to do with my editor, whose suggestions were very wise and far from extreme or intrusive. It's because I'm much too precious about my work - this book in particular - and haven't yet mastered the art of letting other voices in on the process. I've barely learned to let readers in, and I think a lot of my nervous tension during this edit has been the knowledge that in six months' time this book will be public property.
Now this is over I can go back to working on the next thing, which already has a few chapters of life. A new journey, and a new home - for a while.
This has nothing to do with my editor, whose suggestions were very wise and far from extreme or intrusive. It's because I'm much too precious about my work - this book in particular - and haven't yet mastered the art of letting other voices in on the process. I've barely learned to let readers in, and I think a lot of my nervous tension during this edit has been the knowledge that in six months' time this book will be public property.
Now this is over I can go back to working on the next thing, which already has a few chapters of life. A new journey, and a new home - for a while.
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