One edits. One does not blog. Or wash. Or visit people (the real ones at least). Or get out of the bathrobe. Or vacuum up dog hair. Or eat sensibly.
I AM DONE! The edited manuscript has been sent! I'm exhausted. But the book is better. It was not very good before. I have no idea how agents and editors see diamonds in the dull, bloated rocks that come across their desks. X-ray vision, they must have.
Kudos and kisses to all the steely-eyed agents and editors who do far more than midwife books into print. All a midwife does is deliver a perfectly beautiful baby. An editor has to crawl into a writer's mind and root through the gunk and the booze and the excuses, sweetly whispering "I know you left the story in here somewhere, dear. Don't you worry, we'll find it." And then she pulls out her scalpel....
I hardly felt a thing.