The ghastly glimmer of a deadline approaches

October, it seems, is fraught with peril for anyone interested in wrapping up a project or two.  Whatever the reason, this month is chock full of so much stuff that I find myself running about like a four year-old trying to "find" a favorite toy.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, give it a try sometime.  Hide little Jimmy’s woobie or little Suzie’s dolly and then tell them to go look for it themselves.

What you’ll get is a frantic dashing from room to room, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.

What you won’t get is much actual productive searching.  Kids, and, ahem, some adult males, I’m told, don’t really look for things.  They just kind of look at a room for a bit and then run around some more until a parent saves the day, likely because he/she could only take so much freaking out over it.

Oh, and shame on you for taking little Jimmy’s woobie just to prove a point.  You’re a terrible, terrible person.

Anyway, that’s what October’s like sometimes.  There’s lots of stuff to do so you end up doing a good deal of running, arms flailing about  muppet-style, without any satisfied feeling of accomplishment.

And that exactly describes the past week or so around here.

Which, of course, is all just a lot of words to get the basic excuse for why I’m currently behind on my novel edits.

Being behind on editing is not acceptable.  Admittedly, there’s no real deadline here or anything—you only get those for books already under contract.  I’m not even in the same solar system as having a contract yet.  Still, though,  I like to pretend that someday I will actually have to live with deadlines.  Successful writers do that, you know; they have deadlines and they make them (generally).  The way I see it, then, there’s just no reason to start off with bad habits.

Long story, well, long, I need to buckle down and get that editing done. I have beta readers just itching to take a look at my nonsense while I chain smoke, drain bourbon bottles orally, and pull my hair out in fear that they’re all going to quickly realize that I hid all the crappy writing in plain view on every page.

Since I’m hoping to spend December planning for next year’s adventure in novel-writing, I want to get the current one in their hands and then queried to potential agents starting in November.

I looked at calendar today and some jerkface apparently skipped like 3 weeks on me.  It can’t really be October 11th, right?  Right? 

Anyway, so, I’ve got three weeks to finish two passes of editing and spit-shine.  I guess that probably means fewer 1200-words posts about the benefits of navel waxing.

Probably. You never can tell with me.