When you first make mention that you’re writing a novel people tell you certain things. they tell you how your first novel will suck, by default since “all first novels suck”. They’ll tell you how little money you’ll make. They’ll point out that you’ll only make that pittance if you sell it, which you probably won’t.

They warn you about all sorts of things.

Now, I’ve been writing for a while and I’ve published a bunch of things. When I mentioned I was working on a novel people told me all those things anyway. Hell, I’ve said some of them to people. Mostly the no-money ones.

Some people think they are doing themselves a favor, or the world, or worst of all you, by telling you how much you’ll suck. Really? They are insecure themselves and take it out on others. Or worse they think that being abusive is a good thing because that’s “the way the world works”. Generally being an abusive prick and blaming it on “the way the world works” is what people do before they beat loved ones. I’m sorry, but it’s true.

Regardless!

So the novel is done, nine weeks later. I sat at home the other day and thought about the warnings I had received. Does the novel suck? Very possibly. I’m too close to it right now to tell. Will it make money? Oh please. Even if I sell it I won’t make much of anything. But then, since when do I write for the money? So whatever.

But I found something that no one warned me about and I will pass this one on to you:

You end up with a literal two inch thick stack of manuscript to edit.

Two inches of printed paper is formidable. It looms. It has mass. The fucking thing leers at you and taunts you. Because you realize quickly that a single red felt tip pen (my editing tool of choice at least) won’t be enough. You’re going to have to lay in supplies for this puppy. There will have to be a plan of attack This is a mission. And see? Suddenly you find yourself using military terms to describe the event.

You can’t just stick it in a bag and go. You have to make room for it first. One doesn’t just whip out a stack of manuscript like that on a train, you have to plan for it. Do you try and three-hole punch it and put it in a binder? Use a rubber band? Prayer?

So it sits, right now, at home.

Waiting. Leering. Watching. Looming.