I spent January living life instead of writing about it. And it was incredible. But now it’s February, and I have to snap back into a bit of reality: I have about two months to get the final edits into this manuscript and pop my head back onto the radar of agents.
I’ve been editing for nearly a year, and just when I think I’ve run out of things to learn from rewriting on my own, I continue to be surprised. Since I started the novel two and a half years ago, I’ve changed the first line only once. It was a huge, earth shattering change, and completely transformed the tone of the book. Now, struggling with the prologue again, I’ve decided that I need to do something big to feel like I’m moving forward. So on Tuesday, I wrote a new first line, hoping I can reframe the entire story once again.
I’m floored with how much fifty-eight words have made me rethink the following four thousand; I have more direction, and a better understanding of what’s missing. I have a theme to bring to the surface, a thread to weave through that will hopefully be the cohesion for which I’ve been looking and will bring the prose up to a level that’s consistent with the rest of the manuscript.
Of course, this doesn’t mean that I’m set - the actual work still must be done. But let me tell you, it’s a hell of a lot easier to do work when you’re imbued with a direction. This thing will be done in two months if it absolutely ravages me.
M
