I’m in a state my husband has dubbed: paralysis by analysis.
I’ve got less than 30 days until the Writer’s Conference in Vancouver and I’m going mad with edits, synopsis, query, pitches.
Telling a writer to be consise is like trying to explain death to small children. We kinda know what you’re talking about, but really, we don’t get it.
It’s hard to maintain the feeling of enthusiasm in the face of passive, run-on sentences, but I keep telling myself it’s like lifting weights, and I’ll enjoy the benefits in a few weeks when my writing is lean and mean.
But what I wouldn’t give for a triple-layer, choco-mocho-fudge-nut cheesecake with Callibeaut sauce and whipped cream.
