I’m spending most of today editing. I’ve got a chapter printed out at two pages per sheet and a reddish (well, brown) pen on the go. I’m sipping coffee, and trying to be objective. I put the chapter down for a bit, and now I have the job of reading it as if I hadn’t written it myself.
There are times when I slip into allowing it to come through in my own voice. I glide over four pages without a single mark. I snap out of it and go back to the start. Read each word, each letter, each space. If I stumble, I know others will, too.
I force myself to forget what comes next. I don’t get to have any benefits other readers wouldn’t have. It doesn’t matter if I knew what I meant if nobody else will.
I don’t particularly mind this part of it. I almost enjoy pretending that I’m ripping apart somebody else’s work. I get to be better than myself.
As a result, I’m keeping things short here today. I might write more later, but for now I must sit with pen and paper, scribbling notes about the weakness of arguments, omissions of data, and the most devilish details I’d want from anybody else’s writing.