The End! Analyzing the Prescotts is done!
I hesitate to say that any piece of fiction is truly ever finished, but (for now, at least) my new novel, Analyzing the Prescotts, is done. I typed 'the end' on it just moments ago.
Now I'm going out to do some errands because I have a play to review tonight (one of my favorites: Orlando -- so appropriate since the subject matter mimics Analyzing's story), and I need to get up from this chair!
One thing no writer ever tells you is how much it physically hurts the body to be on deadline. The long and short of it: I've been working on the edits for this novel since November. Around the middle of December, I finished a major rewrite and sat down at the computer to type it in. I ate the same meal every day for a week (I typically make a soup, a big one, and since I live alone, I need to eat the whole thing), and by the time I was close to finished, my back, shoulders, and neck had become a fiery mess. I finished it, went directly into the holiday season, and asked my friend Lolita for some help (she's a masseuse and worked on loosening my back so I could begin the second half).
I printed the draft and went through the book once again, inserting scenes where there was a need, deleting characters, adjusting the flow of the narrative. I had made as many notes on this second run through as I had previously . . . so it was time to sit down at the computer and plug in more edits.
Don't get me wrong. These are not the first two edits this manuscript has seen. Not by a long shot! This story is about six years old and has changed dramatically through major overhauls (including one at a writer's colony in Vermont, where I had chunks of the manuscript all over the room and hanging on the walls).
Another week of nonstop typing, and I'm done. I have eaten mostly peanut butter and drank a lot of wine. I haven't gone out much and rarely change from an old t-shirt, a pair of sloppy pants, and slippers that have seen better days. If I didn't have Izzy forcing me to take walks, I probably would never get any fresh air.
And my back . . . yikes. The physical pain of being a writer.
Time to call Lolita for another massage . . . after I go out for some fresh air!
Peace
Dawn
Now I'm going out to do some errands because I have a play to review tonight (one of my favorites: Orlando -- so appropriate since the subject matter mimics Analyzing's story), and I need to get up from this chair!
One thing no writer ever tells you is how much it physically hurts the body to be on deadline. The long and short of it: I've been working on the edits for this novel since November. Around the middle of December, I finished a major rewrite and sat down at the computer to type it in. I ate the same meal every day for a week (I typically make a soup, a big one, and since I live alone, I need to eat the whole thing), and by the time I was close to finished, my back, shoulders, and neck had become a fiery mess. I finished it, went directly into the holiday season, and asked my friend Lolita for some help (she's a masseuse and worked on loosening my back so I could begin the second half).
I printed the draft and went through the book once again, inserting scenes where there was a need, deleting characters, adjusting the flow of the narrative. I had made as many notes on this second run through as I had previously . . . so it was time to sit down at the computer and plug in more edits.
Don't get me wrong. These are not the first two edits this manuscript has seen. Not by a long shot! This story is about six years old and has changed dramatically through major overhauls (including one at a writer's colony in Vermont, where I had chunks of the manuscript all over the room and hanging on the walls).
Another week of nonstop typing, and I'm done. I have eaten mostly peanut butter and drank a lot of wine. I haven't gone out much and rarely change from an old t-shirt, a pair of sloppy pants, and slippers that have seen better days. If I didn't have Izzy forcing me to take walks, I probably would never get any fresh air.
And my back . . . yikes. The physical pain of being a writer.
Time to call Lolita for another massage . . . after I go out for some fresh air!
Peace
Dawn
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