There comes a time in every writer’s life where the writer just cannot stand to look at their own work. Though rather than the singular “time”, I should probably be using something more along the lines of the multiple.

I have to admit, I think I may be in that stage. I have been for quite a while now, too, considering I’ve been “meaning to” edit for the past three months or so. And I haven’t touched it, not once. I have carried it around with me, in hopes of getting bored enough to get to it. So far, that has not happened. Not even close.

I don’t know what it is; I just can’t stand to work on my novel any longer.

Perhaps it’s because the victory of finishing the first draft was so great that I can’t bear to admit that it was not perfect in its original form. Or perhaps it’s because I’ve completely burnt myself out on the entire idea of the novel and I just can’t stand to breach the topic with any of my working senses.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), I do know that this is not good… so I find myself forced to make time for editing so I can actually do what I’m aiming to do: create and sell my novel.

Generally one can only do that once the book has been fully written and edited, and, you know… published.

This is a long, arduous process and the thing is, I am starting to realize this is actual work, not just the fun little hobby I started out doing.

And yet… although I’ve been avoiding it for a while, I’m finally realizing that this is what I want to do for my life, for my living, and so I’ve realized that if I love it, I have to do my best to love working at it, too!

So this (hopefully) starts a new chapter in my life. I’m going to make more time to work on editing my novel and finding an agent or a publisher who will take me.

Do wish me luck, lovies.