I’ve never thought of myself as an anal personality, but I’m beginning to wonder if it was just a matter of seeing what I wanted. No matter how hard I work on a MS or how long I work on it I never believe it’s good enough. Of course this makes it easy for my editor and my beloved beta reader, Winnie. Even as a kid I was my own worse critic and it’s only become more obvious to me how anal I am in the past year.
I’ve been working on a series which I’ve mentioned before AP Investigations; a series that follows the adventures of a team of paranormal investigators led by gay psychologist Valentin “Val” Amoretti. The idea for the series came to me two years ago and I decided to try something a bit different for me–an outline and character sheets. All of that went well and I started on the first book a little over a year ago. My last novel took six months and I’m setting here wondering WTF? Fourteen months, 299 pages, and 65,o65 words later and I’m still having a fit tying this one up–why?
Because I’m driving myself slowly crazy with the damn self-editing that’s why!
Don’t get me wrong I’ve always self-edited and I’m a huge proponent of self-editing, but with this series I’ve taken it to an entirely insane level. I drove myself so nuts that I was unable to write a single word for nearly eight months. That is a whole new level of crazy for me. 😛
My poor beta writer has had to deal with my insanity and Goddess bless her for being the understanding soul she is, but I think I’ve even drove her nuts to an extent. One particularly bad night I was ranting in her ear, close to fucking tears, about how my writing career was dead before it even really took off.
Dead, dead, dead! *weeps & wails like a banshee*
She proceeded to tell me that if I quit writing that she would find some fucking way to hop a plane from Australia and arrive in the US to kick my sorry ass. There were threats of also slapping me around like a red-headed stepchild and knocking some bloody sense into my thick skull.
Honestly, she was right. I had taken self-pity to an all new level; 20,000 tiny violins were playing loud enough that aliens in outer space could hear them. And why? Because I’m so fucking anal that I kept self-editing to the wee hours of the morning than just writing the bloody story and finishing it. My characters were even getting pissy. At some point, Valentin, psychologist extraordinaire, flopped down in a chair and shrieked at me, “Sweet Mother of Jesus, just write already you stupid woman! You’re so lame that I’ve only gotten laid once in this book.”
Having your hero bitch about your lack of writing is a definite wake-up call. So, two weeks ago I sat down and opened the MS, stared at it for an hour, and then miracles of miracles began to write for the first time in what seemed forever. Valentin was happy, but he’s still a bit on the bossy side. Why you may ask?
He wants to know when he’s going to get some more dick. Yeah, he’s a horny little bastard, but I still love him.
Perhaps, I have lost my mind. After all my hero is glaring over my shoulder right now asking why I’m blogging instead of writing another sex scene for him. *rolls eyes* I guess I should go before he decides to plant his foot in my ass–again.
Self-editing be damned for the moment. I’m more fearful of an imaginary psychologist. 😉