Picking Over the Carcass of My Manuscript

by Julie Coulter Bellon

You know how after a beautiful misty rain storm, you come outside and breathe in the fresh air, look around at the dew drops clinging to the grass and feel cleansed? Everything seems a little brighter, a little cleaner, and the air really does smell a little sweeter? Then you look down and realize you’ve just stepped on five worms who were out peacefully enjoying the rain as well? And now you have worm guts on your shoe and a big mess on your sidewalk. That’s how I’m feeling about my manuscript today.

I normally love editing. Love it. I love manipulating the words on the page to make a scene better, tighter, or just more descriptive. There’s nothing like a well-edited manuscript. Unfortunately, sometimes the editor in me doesn’t know when to stop editing and pretty soon I look down and my beautiful fresh manuscript is covered in worm guts and I’ve got a big mess on my hands.

You see, I’m at a point with my manuscript where I’ve gotten all the feedback, made changes, and smoothed it over. Logically that should be all there is to it. Unfortunately, as I was getting ready to send it off, someone said to me, "Well, make sure it’s your best work before you turn it in."

What! What does that mean? Why would they say that? Of course I immediately started second guessing myself. Is it my best work? Could I do better? So I went back and edited some more, changing scenes, taking out some peripheral story stuff, moving things around. It got messy. Very, very messy.

So now it’s like looking at the bottom of my worm gut saturated shoe and wishing I would have stopped walking when I had the chance. I am looking at my manuscript and feeling like I’ve killed it. The joy is gone, it’s all worm guts on the sidewalk now, displayed in all its gory glory. No one will want it because I’ve edited it to death. A horrible, grisly demise, that any publishing company would take a glance at and then run away screaming. All that’s left to do is pick over the carcass of it, like a bird with a worm.

Last night I was expressing these feelings to another author friend of mine and she said, "Well, then, it’s time to turn it in. When you can’t bear to look at it a second longer, turn it in." Then she offered to read it and give me her opinion. To which I said, "Okay, just let me change one more thing."

Sigh.

Maybe it’s a sickness. Or maybe editors shouldn’t be writers. Or writers shouldn’t be editors.

I know I should just turn it in. Put it in the little envelope, like a coffin, and send it on its merry way to heaven or you know where, depending on whether it’s accepted or rejected. And the tears could be happy or sad as well, depending on its fate.

Double sigh.

All right, all right, I’ll just hand it in. Sheesh. But maybe I should read it one more time . . .