Brace yourself for this new piece of bullshit. It stinks of burst bubbles and stale pixie dust.
I’m editing Thingy with the Jiggy, right. And as I was looking through it, I realised that, not only did my writing suck, but I misplaced a shit ton of scenes. So instead of glibly fixing up my grammar and whatnot, I’m also free-handing a bunch of new scenes, which I will then have to edit too…before Christmas!
Do you understand what horror this is for a kid in fucking university?! My schedule might as well be a pop-up book steaming hot from the imagination of Stephen King, because this is what nightmares are made of.
University life for the workaholic is basically an endless round of studying, because the rule of thumb is that if you’ve got six courses, you will have twenty midterms in one week. It doesn’t matter that that’s impossible- the professors will make it happen. They will summon a demon and unleash it on the brains of students, or just fuck with the scheduling of everything. Whichever is easier (I’m betting on the former). It’s midterm season at the moment, meaning that this rule is being put to the test- and standing strong, unfortunately for me and all other students out there.
So at the most inconvenient time possible, my book is deciding to be rude and not edit itself. Really- my characters decided to fuck me over and create their own personalities so that I had to change my entire plot earlier, and now the story itself doesn’t have the common courtesy to continue the self-animation trend? I created you- it’s time to move out of my head and live your own life.
Alas, it’s still open on a tab (I’m too paranoid about losing this document to work with microsoft word…what if my laptop crashes? What if a goblin sticks it in a bathtub? What if I forget to save? Anything can happen!) online and it is static. Except when a picture comes into the mix; I found a picture of a guy who sort of looked like my main character, so I wanted to paste it into my rough draft in case I fucked up his description. Guess what? Paragraphs on page one slid down to page 274; my entire ending slid off the edge of the world and disappeared; the police showed up at my door asking for the culprit of the destruction of writerly property; the world was engulfed in flame and ice, becoming one gigantic Iceland. It was great. I didn’t regret that decision at all.
Therefore, the the depths of a soul blackened with despair -and not the cool kind of despair that all those brooding guys in the romance novels have- here is a message for my rough draft:
Dear Mr. Piece of Shit,
Fuck you. Just…fuck you. I created you from cramped fingers and tears and this is how you repay me? By not editing yourself? Ungrateful child, you will never see the face of Times New Roman again! From now on, you’ll be stuck in an endless cycle of Arial,as punishment for your insolence. By tomorrow, I expect you to be polished and sparkling, or so help me- I will edit you myself. And you won’t like the consequences: we’re talking proper descriptions, dialogue that doesn’t make people cringe, flowing scene transitions. It won’t be pretty- your corpse won’t even be fit for the grammar police to pick apart. So, Thingy with the Jiggy, I hope you’re ready for the battle for your life- because I intend to beat you into a pulp. Pulp fiction.
On that ominous note, I hope to hear about your frazzled emotions when it comes to editing. Do you ever feel the urge to throw your whole document out the window and letting it unravel in cyberspace until not a bit of it is left, or is that just me?