At last, the editing is done and I can say I’VE FINISHED!
Well, sort of. For now, at least…
From about the third draft onwards, as I read through the final chapter, I’m always convinced that this is it – my book is finished, as perfect as it can be, ready to send out to the world. And then I leave it a while, and come back to it, and realize it’s not finished at all, there are still things I can do to improve and polish, words to be tweaked, sentences made shinier.
But at least three times now, I’ve celebrated reaching The End on twitter, and each time I can’t imagine making any more changes, so I send it out there – first to my fabulous agent and to the lovely readers at the RNA, and it comes back with detailed notes about areas that need developing, expanding, cutting, and so I go back and polish and tweak and make it shinier.
But this time, I’m 90% sure I really have finished.
But I really wish I hadn’t. We’ve all read books we don’t want to end – because we love the characters, because we’ve spent so much time in that fictional world it’s become almost real. And this is even more true in the books we write – we have lived with these characters for a year or more, spending as much time with them as our real-life families and friends; we have guided them through highs and lows and we have loved them. It’s very hard to close the door on them and send them on their way – however hard editing can get, no one really wants the end to be the end.
We want reaching the end to be the beginning.