Sometimes NOT Editing is Harder than Editing

Posted: September 20, 2017 in Writing
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So … I’m going through a series of edits on my manuscript.  I say series, because unlike in the past when I’ve made all of my revisions in one massive, thoroughly entangled pass, this time I am making them one at a time.

I’ve been sitting on these revision notes for awhile, letting them cook, researching details, collecting inspiration with a butterfly net. So, all of these ideas have been percolating, fermenting, running together.

I’m enjoying the less intense process of layering these revisions.   For example, right now I’m changing the main location. I can concentrate on only this and go through the whole manuscript with just this one change in mind.  The only problem is, I keep seeing paragraphs, lines of dialogue, bits of description, that I know I’ll need to change at some point, and ideas for replacements spring instantly to mind while I’m in the groove.  But I’m determined not to head down those rabbit holes.

It’s not easy.  I need to keep reminding myself of my priorities.  Right now, that’s placing the story in a new location.  I’ve polished this same paragraphs over and over, because they ground me in the present task, and since they are in the first chapter, they have to be perfect:

The Ferry Beach Boardwalk was like a carnival, a mall, and a craft fair all tossed into a giant blender and spread out along two miles of the Maine coastline. Sand and the smell of the ocean got into everything. But as I clomped along the boards past brightly-painted storefronts, I liked to pretend it was all Princess Catherine’s personal kingdom. I fancied the blonde lady who sold wooden flutes was an elf, and the little toothless man who took tickets for the Sooper Loop roller coaster was a goblin in disguise. I was pretty sure the ladies at the cotton candy stall were pixies. And I’d bet my allowance the fat dude on the beach with the metal detector was a troll who lived under the old pier.

The Sky Wheel, “the tallest Ferris wheel in Maine,” spun lazily right across from the entrance to the pier, but as I stepped into the ride’s shadow I glimpsed more sparkles out of the corner of my eye. I almost dropped the bowl as I stumbled and stopped – was it the guy in the Hawaiian shirt again?

No, these twinkles surrounded a red-haired girl my age standing in line for the Sky Wheel. She turned to look right at me, and I swear the glitter around her legs swirled into the shape of a fish’s tail. I could even see the scales shimmering like a rainbow trout in the sun. But with my actual eyes and not just my imagination.

I blinked and the sparkles were gone, along with her tail. She waved to someone behind me.

What was happening to me? Why was I suddenly seeing actual fairy-tale people? Had I overloaded my imagination and broken it? Maybe Mom was right – maybe reading fairy tales was bad for me.

Okay, I am not going to end up the crazy cat lady who talks to the wallpaper. I’m not! Only insane people saw imaginary creatures walking around in broad daylight. Right? I am not nuts, I told myself firmly. No more Princess Catherine today. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the pier, shading my eyes from the late Spring sun with one hand.

As I threaded my way between tourists and the narrow, weatherworn shops, the garlicky smell of Pier Fries made my stomach gurgle. Underfoot, a pair of seagulls fought over a fallen fry, the loser crying foul. I was well out over the water and past the surf by the time I got to the end of the pier, and I spotted the little bald man hunched over the workbench in the middle of his tiny shop. Mr. Goldschmidt was a clockmaker, but he could fix anything you put down in front of him.

“Caserine? Vat have you got there?” Gold teeth flashed through his beard as he spoke with a thick German accent.


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