Editing is weird. I’ve been doing a lot of it lately. I’ve heavily revised the language and descriptions through the first 17 chapters now (almost halfway through the book).
You write something and, at the time, it seems pretty good. You go back later and it’s like looking at your prom photo. “Really? I thought that was cool?”
I have recently trimmed a lot from the second chapter (which was something like the fourth run through, although the first few times were intentionally not major edits). I now find my previous version humiliating. Like the oversized, plastic framed glasses I wore at thirteen.
Why should this matter? It shouldn’t. But I’d submitted the first 3 chapters to a contest last month (which is why I’d revised those chapters before my major edit).
I’m now cringing, knowing that someone is reading that earlier version– despite the fact that many people liked it the way it was.
But there’s not a durned thing I can do about that. And who knows, I may revise again later and hate the version I’ve got right now.
I am still toying with title ideas. I’m recently really digging “Flashing Past”, but I’m not sure if that’s intriguing enough for people to pick up in the first place. I came up with “Long Way Baby” on the way home from a lecture today. And I’m sure I’ll have more ideas as time goes by.
OH! And I woke up with an idea for a short story today. That’s never happened to me before. I have lots of novel-length ideas, but rarely a quickie. So, I might crank that out when I get tired of editing.