I wrote a little anxiously a while ago about the dangers of over-editing. I knew I needed to make alterations to Looking For Buttons but I wasn't at all sure I'd know when to stop. In the end, after far too much faffing about I read an excellent book by Jane Wenham-Jones that gave me the boot up the rear I needed. I got stuck in. I read. I reread. I tweaked. I cut. I rewrote. Occasionally I laughed and then felt sheepish at laughing at something I'd forgotten I'd made up. But I persevered.
Until tonight. Right, I thought, time to do some writing. And nothing sprang to mind. Nothing at all.
Oh, I hear you sigh with no noticeable sympathy, another post about writer's block. But no! This was quite a different class of nothing.
I have nothing more I want to do to Looking For Buttons. My subconscious seems quite happy to leave it alone. So it's time to print out the manuscript, give it one last check for typos, and then send it to the next agent on my list.
I would like to celebrate, but unfortunately the Difficult Second Novel has woken up and is demanding attention. Excuse me, I have plotlines to organise...
