I started the final draft of the work-in-progress Sunday night. I probably mind these polishing drafts less than anything else about writing; I have a routine that works for me, and I just plod through the entire book. Each day I read a chapter or two, edit on the screen what I read the previous day, and line edit a hard copy while I read it aloud. (The three steps are performed in reverse order from what is described here; it seemed to read easier this way.)
How do I feel about coming back to a writing routine after two months off? Meh. I don't mind the work, but I don't like the time it sucks out of my evenings. The plan is to finish this off by Labor Day, then decide if I want to start another project to fill the winter months. (I have a few story ideas I like percolating, so there shouldn't b a delay there, should I feel like continuing.)
The book itself is okay. I'm pretty happy with the quality of the writing and not changing a lot, mostly tightening and re-ordering words and sentences. I hope this doesn't come across like I'm an arrogant prick, but I really don't think it's the quality of my writing that has held me back. (I freely admit to being an arrogant prick; I just don't want to sound lime one.) The fault is not with the publishing industry, it's mine alone. The issue isn't so much with the quality of the writing, but with the something else of the writing. Story selection, maybe. Possibly my voice. As I've noted before, I try to write books I'd like to read; maybe my tastes aren't popular enough. Whatever. Let's finish this puppy up and get on with trying to sell it.
It would be remiss of me not to take a moment to thank those who have been encouraging, sympathetic, and generally made me feel as though they had my back. Of course, My Beloved Spouse heads the list, but Declan Burke and Charlie Stella have stood out with their support and patience with my whining. Thanks to them, and to all of you who have posted comments here, or sent emails. You are much appreciated.