Editing is the work of the devil.

I am going at a snails pace with the damn editing. Getting this thing publishing ready is taking significantly longer than I was expecting it to.  It is draining me emotionally, and I have spent so many hours staring at periods and quotation marks that I can barely discern a colon from a comma any longer. I have decided that a daily rule of mine is to edit at least 5 pages of my manuscript, which seems like such a small and pathetic number.  But I want to make sure everything is as perfect as I am capable of getting it, which means googling whether or not the comma goes inside our outside of parentheses and thoughts should be italicized.

Both are argued about rather frequently on the interwebs. I still don’t know if there is a right answer.

I think the most frustrating thing about all of this is that I have been working on this novel for 8 or so years, and I’m reaching the point where I don’t even want to look at it anymore.  I have so many other story ideas flapping around inside of my head, and I have to tether them all to a stake in the backyard of my mind until I can get this manuscript done. Most of the story is so ingrained in my brain that I could read it backwards.  And I mean actually backwards.

revo sti. Its the last sentence in the book. Like that.  The whole thing. From memory. And my memory sucks.

As I’m sitting here at my computer at the end of a rather tumultuous day, (up at 5, daughter had surgery, having eaten way too much non vegan pizza) I’m dreading having to get back to work with that.  As if the 3 blog posts I have written in the last hour aren’t already proof of my procrastination.  But tonight, I think I’m going to forego standard operating procedures in order to get a quick start on a new autobio I have very recently considered writing.

That’s not true. A few months ago, I had begun to write an autobio about being bipolar and raising a potentially bipolar child.  But I couldn’t quite get my heart into it.  I felt as though writing something like this was important, as bipolar is genetic and there aren’t a whole lot of books out there, or any really, on raising a child knowing that they have the potential to pick up your crooked brain gene.  As I started writing it, though, I was reminded of how off I was starting to consider my diagnosis to be. The idea was quickly scrapped.

But two things happened recently that made me decide to try again. One is that I have been doing a lot of research on borderline personality disorder and multiple personality disorder, and I am starting to fear that my diagnosis would be much more severe than originally thought. That, along with starting to read a book by Susannah Cahalan called “Brain on Fire” about her month long stint in the hospital suffering from a virus that made her temporarily bat shit crazy, and you have my brain cranking again in the way that made me think I might have manic tendencies in the first place.  So tonight, I am hoping to get a few paragraphs in before my eyes begin to deceive me and I inevitably pass out in a strange half sitting position on the couch.

Onward and upward I go.


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