Welcome To My Bed

Editor, at large.

At large meaning in the library. That's really the only place I go besides James' house. And class. There will always be class.

Anyway. There are about three weeks left in the semester (which is ridiculous and terrifying), and this means that my fiction workshop is about to take a look at the revisions of everyone's pieces. I am sitting at my beloved reference desk and tearing mine to shreds. People say that red pens hurt feelings. And they do. But I must be ruthless. I have excised probably a quarter of the text in my first read-through. Which is good. Because as it stands now, the monster is 32 pages. And it can be no more than twenty. I would be selfish and submit it anyway, but that's not very fair to everyone who has to read it.

All of this is mildly terrifying to me, because this thing has been my baby for almost four years now. I don't think I've taken a serious editting eye to it in all that time. I've just been writing willy-nilly, which isn't exactly the best way to go about producing something worthwhile. But I get afraid of finishing things. I like to think I will just continue to create, unchecked, for as long as I want to. And then when I'm done, it will miraculously be perfect. Sadly, that is not so. And that is the reason for the red pen. I will benefit from this. If I cut, the pages will not bleed. I am trying to remember that. They look awfully red though.