Here is my truth today.
I am writing and rewriting, and unless you live in an imaginary Jack Kerouac fantasy Beatnik, personal journal la la land, you know what I'm talking about.
Writing is WORK. Once you get past the initial beauty of creation, you are in that big scary forest, what Bukowski called the hairy scary vagina region (I'd just as easily call it anyone's pubic area), and I'm also paraphrasing.
But I'm spent.
I'm at that juncture where I am rearranging paragraphs and words, cutting whole chapters because they just aren't singing. I'm being excruciatingly picky about word choice and not using adverbs like excruciatingly.
I carry my laptop and physical pages everywhere I go, even to the grocery store. Just in case. I take them to lunch, to the beach and to my various other jobs. I eat and sleep this book.
I love the word FUCK and I hate the word fart. I think that bottom line, that's my problem. I've written a fucking awesome book. Now, I gotta stop from pouring gas all over the whole thing and blowing it up.
Does anyone else feel mentally and physically exhausted after editing?