CUT!

I posted an update to my status on facebook that I'd managed to farm out three of my four children (and the one that stayed home is pretty danged independent) and so I had 3 days to write and clean. My super-cool facebook friends all told me forget the cleaning and go write!

But I didn't want to write, and you wanna know why?

Cause I just cut 12,349 words! That's why.

Seeing as how I'm an accountant these days I thought I'd run the numbers--35.4% of what I had written to date is now in my cuts folder. That leaves me with 22, 543 which is only 25% of my goal of 90,000 words.

See, the heartache comes from the fact that I knew what I'd written wasn't really working, which is one reason why I'd been avoiding the writing. But when I'm down 3 kids and a husband, and before the husband leaves I ask that husband for a blessing so I can use my time well; I have to write. And unfortunately for me, HAVING to write, means I HAD to cut. And it hurts, damnit.

I was supposed to have this book done by August 1st. It's very hard to adjust that deadline in my mind without feeling as though I'm failing my publisher and my readers and myself. But it was my own deadline and, ironically, I know that not cutting it means I can't move forward, because I try too hard to make what doesn't work, work and that is almost equally discouraging. Ya know?

Kinda like yesturday. The kids are gone, and I know it's the Sabbath and all, but I started to clean my daughter's room. I really only wanted to confirmation that yes, the closet was still there. Within 2 hours I had 2 full size garbage sacks (full of polly pocket clothes and barbie shoes I feel no guilt over discarding) in my garbage can, a bag of clothes for her cousin and 2 boxes and 2 bags of stuff for DI. She has a month to remember specific items in the DI stuff that I will then return to her, but after a month, if she can't remember it, it's gone. It was extreme, yes, and I should have waited until today, but it was also impossible for me to clean without CUTTING. Otherwise the room would never have been clean--there was too much stuff.

And cutting the 12,349 had to be done as well. I know it did, but it's still hard to see my page count dwindle.

I'm getting my hair cut on Thursday. It's time. I love it long, but then there are times I just don't. My ends are thin, it sticks to me when I'm working outside and I just need a little style--so I'm going under the knife. It won't be fun, and I might just cry, and yet I know it's a good thing and feel a glimmer of excitement at the idea of change!

I need to feel that same glimmer of excitement about cutting my story--because I cut it, that means I can have a healthier head of words, right? And it means that I won't have junk spilling through the doorway, right? And this sick feeling in my stomach will go away, right?

Oh, I really, really hope so.

Eating words: a good idea?

So tonight I watched my first episode of Grey's Anatomy. I've seen commercials for years--didn't light my fire other than making me miss Northern Exposure. But tonight I was doing some furniture restoration in the kitchen and had paint on my hands so I couldn't change the channel when the Lifetime movie was over. So amid sanding and glorifying myself for my industriousness, I watched.

One of the storylines of the episode was a writer who after years of working on his novel, made a dramatic show of suffering for his art by eating the novel. Really, he ate the paper, because he had reached the point where the words had melded into drivelish (I own that word now) rubbish (It's Harry Potter week, I can use British terminology). So he eats it.

Have you ever tried to chew paper? I mean, since you were eight and really really bored. I actually have, it's doesn't taste very good at all and it's very hard to chew. It's also even harder to digest. So, rather than putting the novel behind him (no pun intended--I never pun) he ends up with a bowel blockage which requires surgery, which I think thrilled him even more. Not only could he own the fact he'd eaten his novel, but he'd have a kicken scar to show off. Can you just imagine this guy at a party "yup, I ate my novel, here's the scar to prove it. I know it looks like an appendectomy scar, but your appendix is actually on the right side and this is clearly on the left."

But it gets better. After the surgery, he starts talking in jibberish and not making any sense (I know a lot of writers, so this isn't so weird but it was a red flag to the doctors) but they come to realize that the paper had been made with mercury and hence he had mercury poisoning. As a side note, did you know the cliche "Mad as a Hatter" came to be because in the 19th century, hat makers (hatters) made the hat shiny by rubbing them with mercury--which when it builds up in your body makes you go insane. (I know without a doubt that Annette Lyon is going to check this, she knows everything--cross your fingers that I'm right so I don't feel like a git)

Anyway, there is a moral of this story, and that is that not matter how bad your book gets, don't eat it. Just, well, revise or something. Far less problematic--and you'll still be able to wear your bikini.