Writing a book seems like a straightforward process. You sit down, you write some amazing stuff, email the file to your agent and they sell it. Yeah.
What really happens is far uglier. I won't take the bloom totally off the rose here, but let's just say there is a lot of teeth gnashing and hair pulling and not a few tears as you try to shape up a work in progress. The other night, I finished a revision for my agent and felt pretty good about it. Yup. Went to bed thinking it was ready to go. Opened the file up the next day for a quick run through and was filled with angst - was there enough of a ticking clock? Did taking out that plotline remove too much of the drama? Were the characters at all believable? Didn't the ending totally stink? Argh. I closed the file and frantically tried to think of ways to fix my humongous mistakes.
And then, you guessed it, I opened it up yesterday and started from page one. By the time I'd finished the first chapter I was back to "This is pretty good" and "The changes really are working". I really have no idea what it's like - maybe it stinks, maybe it doesn't. Only Agent E will tell for sure.
On this date: In 1845, The Raven is published. Nevermore...