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-shapr 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
Any of these sound familiar to you? And which ones have I missed?