Writing a Novel is Like This

Writing a novel is like all these things:

• Weaving a carpet
• Hacking out a sculpture from solid marble
• Juggling scimitars whose blades have been honed to razor-sharp perfection
• Getting jiggy with someone you love
• Embarking on a long journey in a foreign land without map or compass
• Bringing up a child
• Building a replica of the entire city of New York out of matchsticks
• Exposing yourself in public

Editing that same novel resembles the following:

• Scrubbing furiously at the carpet in the vain hope of getting rid of the stains
• Wondering what kind of glue you need to stick broken pieces of marble together
• Counting your fingers and finding you don’t have as many as you used to
• Going again
• Retracing your steps through what turned out to be a minefield
• Doing a DNA test to make it’s really yours
• Discovering matchsticks are flammable
• Covering yourself up in embarrassment and hastily running for cover

Do any of these sound familiar to you? Which ones have I missed?