So, as I'm sure I've said a least a hundred times before, my husband is awesome.
And, no, that's not the weird thing.
It goes something like this:
Husband read my book for the second time and made all sorts of helpful notes and things in the margins, crossing out unnecessary words and scribbling little question marks where he was confused. We sort of worked in tandem, me editing a chapter or two, then him reading some more. It took awhile, but you know that whole day job and housework thingy...
Then all at once, he got way ahead of me, finishing it in one fell swoop. He presented me with the manuscript binder with his usual and always heartwarming: 'It's good!"
Then it sat for several months. Admittedly, some of those months I felt like curling into a ball and sleeping through my every-second-morning-sickness. (Oh, wait, that's pretty much exactly what I did.) Now, though, I have had several months where I feel great, even if there is a small life form doing jumping jacks in my lower abdomen all the time. But I still didn't work on my edits.
I honestly, truly felt...scared of editing. I really can't explain it. I had a huge amount of trepidation about editing this manuscript again. I didn't want to read it, or think about it or look at Husband's ideas.
I was convinced it was all terrible and trite and stupid and that I would hate it if I had to face it again. Which is silly, because it is good, tooting my own horn notwithstanding.
It was weird.
Today I finally worked up enough courage to plow through the end of the book. And contrary to my fears (duh) he only had some minor things he thought I should adjust. Like one bit where I smooshed two different parts together and it was night in one and day in the other. Easy fix. Also, there were a few times I forgot a period.
Honestly? Honestly? I was all worked up about missing punctuation? But I can't explain it. I still have a vague and restless sense of disease when I look at the green binder, like I want to stuff it in my 'old scribbled-on manuscript' box I keep shoved under the couch (we have a tiny apartment and a futon with a foot of space underneath = storage!).
I am the first to admit when I write something that stinks. Sometimes it stinks because it hasn't been thought out quite right, or the story is weak or whatever.
This is the first time I have irrationally wanted to just shred something and give up.
It is unsettling. I don't like it. I'm trying to blame baby-hormones, since yesterday I totally melted down despairing over my inability to make pie dough that rolls out smoothly while Husband gave me hugs and tried not to laugh. Serious stuff, I know
So, I'm not exactly sure what to do. Other than give birth to a baby. However, as that is still some time away, I need some different ideas. I like the 'suck it up' mentality, but that only gets things done and actually doesn't dispel my suddenly wavering confidence.
As I obviously don't have an answer right now, I'm simply going to congratulate myself on my bravery for editing at all and let the green binder sit once more. I have one more chapter to work on, but it needs some tinkering and I don't think I can face that right now.