I remember fondly my days as a wee lad when I wrote the first chapter of my upcoming novel.
Those were innocent times. The year of our Lord SFM, 2023. The emotions of happiness and accomplishment overwhelmed me. I was complete. It was but to be a moment before the world would view this masterpiece!
Three years later, all the blood, sweat, and tears have ripped that hope from my youthful heart.
I was but in my early 50s. A mere toddler in writer years. And yet, somehow, I believed that completing the "manuscript" was a moment of genuine achievement. Dreams realized. Wishes coming true. Like Hillary and Tenzing taking those last steps to the summit of Everest.
I have arrived. The day of reckoning has arrived. I am complete. I am man!
Oh, how innocent I was.
Here I am, six months after finishing that "manuscript", editing version 13, and I know I'm only halfway to v14.
And there will be a v15. And a v16. I have no doubt about that.
I may have more doubts about when this son of Satan will finally see the light of day, but I will wrestle this bastard through the depths of hell, drag it kicking and screaming to v17 if necessary, and it WILL be judged.
But I also know now that my days of feeling any sense of achievement from finishing something have abandoned me.
Like a lover who whispered sweet promises in my ear, only to laugh behind my back.
Anyway, back to editing.
I think there is a comma on page 147 that needs to die. That and every em dash that was born from these evil hands of mine.