Sometimes when I’m editing, supposedly minding my own business, I add some exposition to the book, then discover that the same exposition was already there a chapter or two later. Or I find myself explaining (to myself) “that part is not preachy and here’s why.” Now, people only say “that isn’t preachy” when it is preachy and they know it! They might as well get out whatever holy book they use and start wiggling it at people while theatrically modulating their voices. (I’ll delete the preachy scene. You’ll never see it.)

When I catch myself writing like that, I attribute it to spending too much time with the book (too many hours for too many days straight). Buried that deep in the process, I have somehow lost track of the bigger picture. The same thing used to happen when I was writing software. So I take a break and step back for a better view. This time, it happened halfway through a polishing-edit of “Daughters and Doorways”, so for the last two weeks I have been studying something else entirely (the FAA private pilot written exam).

One of the side benefits of backing off is that my brain starts wandering over the whole story. I think about completely different (and possibly better) ways to begin it. Of course that can be destructive doubt at times, but self-doubt comes with the territory in any artistic work. Self-doubt and artistic sense are like two shoulder angels, and what most people don’t realize is that those angels look identical. Shoulder angels in popular fiction (my favorites are Kronk’s from The Emperor’s New Groove) usually dress and act differently in accordance with whatever cultural meme is in play (e.g., angel/devil or working-man/lawyer). In real life, the bad angel dresses and talks exactly like the good one. And he switches shoulders without warning. For some reason, the image of two identical shoulder angels reminds me of the Buffy episode where we had two Xanders. “Shoot us both, Spock!”

And, oddly enough, sometimes “Shoot zem both” is the right thing to do. When I read Larry Gelbart’s autobiography, the one thing that stuck with me for decades was his recollection of being approached by A. Famous Writer after A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum. (I don’t remember who the famous writer was, but I recall recognizing the name at the time.) The famous writer asked if he could give Gelbart some advice. Gelbart eagerly assented. The advice was “Don’t change a word of it.”

At some point, it’s done. Put it down and don’t look back.

But not yet. In fact, maybe I should rewrite the first few chapters of the first novel. Maybe it jumps around in time too much. I’ll take a walk and think about it.