Writing Is Fun Until You Have to Edit

Y’all, I finally figured out what makes my brain shut up.

I knew it was bad when the plot suddenly stopped writing itself.

“Oh??? SILENCE???”
I said aloud, like a crazy person.
The characters stopped talking in my head.

Turns out, cutting 50k words from a manuscript will, in fact, unplug your soul.
Not in one sitting, mind you. But like... almost.
It was, what, a week?

Bro.

After a while, I turned into Jared — 19.
I stopped being able to read.

My neurons? OFF.
My motivation? OUT TO LUNCH.
My manuscript? A bloated whale carcass.

Why do I do this to myself?
I’m only halfway done, and I still have, what, 50k more to cut??
Excuse me??

Like.
How did I even write this much in the first place???

10K ALONE was just one character describing every single meal he cooked and ate.
Like okay, chef, calm down.
This is not your sad frog cooking channel.

And yet. Somehow. I’m not sad. Or mad. Just a little numb.

I’m sorry to this man (my manuscript), but you were so bloated it bordered on a health hazard.
90% of the cuts are making it better.

Shoutout to Josie, the MVP who read the entire original version.
Girl.
You’re unwell. I say that with love.

And then she had the audacity to say:

“I feel like you could’ve added more insecurity!”

MA’AM.
THE BOOK IS LONGER THAN THE BIBLE.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “MORE INSECURITY”?
IT’S 400 PAGES OF EMOTIONAL DAMAGE AND GAY YEARNING FOR CUSTARD.

Anyway.
Don’t mind this blog post.
This is just me coping from inside the editing trenches, screaming into the void.

All I want is to write another book. But every time I try, my soul goes:
“NO. YOU MUST FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED.”

And I’m like:
🥲 okay