Oh Lordy. With such confidence i announced that i was coming to the finishing stages, only to slide into a deadly whirlpool of edititis. Having applied a few edits, i now find that i am incapable of actually reading the thing, and am only able to think of what i might further change, rather than assess what’s already there. I am in a kind of writing/publishing editorial flux. I need to take myself into a room and give me a talking to.
Stop! You are rushing because your love of writing – and of these characters – has become obfuscated. You are mindful of wanting to write for a living, of the fact that you don’t, that you spend most of your free time in a ‘day job’, and that the only way to achieve your goal is to write this novel and quickly earn cash. But remember – you are not churning out saleable tat. You want it to be right, no? Because you love it, no? Not because you have a sales deadline. Also – you do realise that the chances of this earning you cash are slim to zero. Remember – Love, not lust.
Hold! All this social networking and constant access to what everyone else is doing, what else is being published, what agents are saying – and what they are drinking and wearing and watching on the telly – not only offers useful tools, but seeds a profound anxiety in the back of your mind. Though, like a good professional, you are mindful of marketing concerns and publishing routes, you ain’t got shit without a presentable book.
Hark! Tomorrow, you might feel like reading it. Why not get some other bugger to read it. They might tell you what you secretly always wanted to know. It need only be generally comprehensible for this purpose, not necessarily gleaming with tight-arsed polish.
To summate: Chill out, dickwad.