Editing is one of my favorite parts about the writing process. It’s the elimination of the unnecessary. It’s quick and brutal. It’s taking a rough piece of work and shaping it into something more.
Editing is fun.
Rewriting, now that’s a different matter.
I am halfway through editing the book I wrote a bajillion years ago as a stay at home mom, and it’s amazing how well the editing process is going. This is crap! This is good. This isn’t even possible. Who’d believe this? Extra words, gone. Extra characters, deleted. Romantic interest: expand on. It’s all clear, what needs to be done. Wee! It’s fun, to edit, criticize, and point out faults!
And by the end of the week, I’ll have a marked up manuscript, and this marked up manuscript will have to be rewritten.
This is just as important a step as any other, but it’s the one that causes the most hair-twisting, hand-wringing, soul-deep cries of anguish.
And I’m doing it to myself.