The last week has been an interesting venture down a path of realization that some of my previous works in progress weren't quite up to my standards. This is fine, it's all part of the revision process. I'm very happy that I can A. recognize the areas where I have room for improvement and B. that I was able to separate the revision process from the original writing to some degree.
I guess you could say that I'm generally a very aggressive editor of my own work. This doesn't speak a whole lot in the way of borrowing perfection, but more often than not seems to do better at detracting me from the forward movement I need in order to get a piece out and ready for the next stage. I shudder at the thought of breaking down the walls and shattering concrete foundations when I rewrite. No, my style seems to be more akin to the clickity clack of a buzzards beak as he sates his inevitable patience with the tired and rotting flesh of his long awaited prey. I pick at my words with the same road-kill sentimentality you might feel toward a slightly flattened skunk.
The whole ordeal might as well be practiced within the confines of the morgue, where each line requisite of the cadavers autopsy must be orchestrated, though many practiced apprentices shun the command to proceed. No one wants to make the first cut. It's understandable, it really is. I, the appointed mentor of my inner thoughts, feel squeamish at best. The first cut is the hardest. The fluids might be arranged in any of a great many possible configurations, some much less optimal than others for the squirting.
Gently, then, the scalpel is pressed down, flush with the cold epidermis, and with the slightest pressure, no, perhaps a bit more. No, no, you've really got to get in there.... but it's too late. You've gone right in and made a mess of things that won't soon be cleaned up. You can't just undo a thing like that, now can you? Mentor indeed. All the extra work and officiating these training sessions and the next thing you know Mrs. Jennings is looking for her earring and she's got the oddest inclination that you've sewn it back up into the gullet of old Uncle Harvey.
My YA Fantasy novel that's been in the works for some time now has some promise, but before that it has disappointment. The writing just isn't what it needs to be. The characters don't yet interact on a level that such an opening requires. What little dialogue there is, just so happens to be two shades lower than premium horse shit fertilizer.
But, of course, there's hope still yet. As long as I'm not afraid of reworking the offending sections and tying them back together into the overall premise of what it was I'd hoped to accomplish... well then, I suppose we'd all be right as rain. The patient may very well stand up and walk, infused with a touch of accidental life. A Lazarus of manuscripts, a far cry against my nature.
It wasn't much, in truth, in honesty, or maybe a couple of round-about lies that just take a while to come to fruition. I've still got to study for my certification and I'll need to be scheduling it here soon. It's all a juggling act. It's fine, though, isn't it? I mean, if it doesn't kill you over and you've managed to learn a thing or two? All the better then. Perhaps the next piece will start off on the journey just a few steps ahead of where you were the last time.