For five weeks the first novel manuscript gathered dust in my bedroom side table. Enough time passed that I actually began to dread picking it up again. What if it was far worse than I remembered?
So mid-week I unwrapped the pages from their plastic FedEx Office bag, ripped open the package of new editing pens acquired for this purpose, and sat down with the manuscript open to page one. It was as bad as I feared. Chapter 1, from start to finish, left a lot to be desired. There was nothing poetic about the language, nor was it particularly efficient (a trade-off, in my mind, that I failed to even approach). Too many of the words stood in the way of the story. It really did suck, just like so many authors before me suggested it might. Upon reaching the end, it was clear that a major edit was in order and my self-confidence flagged a bit. Is this writing thing not a strength after all? Had I fallen prey to a four month delusion? The saving grace was the realization that the story itself retained glimmers of potential hidden under ugly word play.
Steeling myself, I turned the next page and started reading Chapter 2. Oh, sweet relief! This one was pretty good. Only a few red marks addressing minor word choice decisions were applied to the paper. Maybe Chapter 1 was an aberration, the dirty sock in a pile of clean, fresh laundry. If I were a baseball player, I’d be batting .500 now, a respectable number even against the fact that April is too early to assess anything.
What will Chapter 3 bring? Misery or satisfaction?