You know that feeling you get when you finally finish your first draft of a piece of work? That explosion of bubbles and goodness, like you’ve triumphed over everything, because in a way you really have?
You got through the FB distractions that are trending, the most popular IG posts, sending GIFs to your friends (because now you’ve started why stop?) and even Tumblr, because even though you haven’t looked at it in years, a recent YA book you read hails it all the time.
I’ve realized I’m thoroughly addicted to that feeling. What comes next though: not so much so. I’m in the middle of drafting. Of printing out my work, and going through it with a red pen as if it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it. And then I’m walking away, working on other projects and coming back to read it again.
I don’t think writers fully express how hard it really is to edit and judge your work as if it isn’t an extension of your very being. How you’re supposed to disengage and be distant but still fully invested in it. Well, it is hard. It’s bloody hard. I read my piece, maybe five times yesterday and still kept finding things. It got to the point where I looked at every sentence and thought: “is that too much? Shall I kill some similes”?
The result? Asking a dear friend and writing peer to have a look at it. She agreed. This is no mean feat. She’s a brilliant writer and busy no end. That she would take the time, legitimizes all my recent writing efforts.
Of course this means I’ve peeled my skin back here and exposed myself because like it or not writing is completely woven up in me. I would be unanchored without it. But who am I kidding, I write to share it too. I write because it really is the closest thing we have to magic in this world.