Fear and Loathing in the Editing World

Photo by John Robert Marasigan on Unsplash

It’s 04:52 a.m. I drag myself out of bed in a blur of confusing thoughts. The cough is here already, shaking my entire body. It’s dark, cold, and my head spins slightly, yet I’m thinking about you, dear edit. Already. I manage to make my way to the kitchen while coughing and prepare myself a delicious coffee. The taste is bitter, like you, dear edit. I look at the milk mixing up lazily with the coffee, and my thoughts are already full of story, full of possibilities. Some good, some bad—mostly bad.

I take a sip of brown and stumble to the bathroom to spit. It’s harsh, and the cough shakes my entire body until my belly hurts. Lovely way to start the day. I avoid looking at my puffy self in the mirror—no need for that reality check right now—and half-yawn, half-cough as I make my way to the office in the heavy darkness. In the bedroom, my three hearts are sleeping tight, blissfully unaware of the impending literary war. I lift my feet, one after another, until I reach my writing room. It’s a mess in there. A reassuring mess, though. My kind of chaos. Yet, the small sofa is already calling to me, seducing me with the promise of sleep. But I’m thinking of you, dear edit. The toxic relationship continues. I open the window, and the freezing air envelops me, both awakening me and inspiring new bouts of coughing. So, naturally, that’s when I roll the first of many cigarettes. Yes, I’ve started smoking again. Goddamnit. Even though emphysema runs in my family. I know I shouldn’t, but, hey, if I’m going to self-destruct, I might as well do it thoroughly, right?

The pages are in front of me—blinking in and out of existence—as I stare through the words. Meaningless and meaningful—because why would my brain choose just one? The smoke fills me, bitter and raw, awakening me properly. I feel like some old, creaky demon ready for his day’s mischief. Mischief in the form of a rewrite. I blow smoke everywhere like some kind of tortured artist cliché. Yet, I’m already thinking of the next cigarette. Did I mention emphysema? Let’s pretend I didn’t.

My hands are shaking from the meds. Nothing is moving outside but for the few wolves like me who come alive deep into the night. And what am I thinking of? You, dear edit. Always. Of the strain, of the joy mixed with anxiety that defines you. You're exhausting, but you're also kind of thrilling. A terrible thrill, like skydiving without a parachute.

Yes, I received the letter from my editor, and I’m doing just fine. And by fine, I mean “fine” in the same way you say it when someone asks how you're doing and you're really spiraling into a black hole. The letter was polite, with plenty of positives, but it also meant a rewrite. A face-off with the reality of my novel’s current state: Not there. Not yet anyway. It’s the first time for me. I’ve never worked with an editor before, and I’m already rolling another cigarette. This is apparently my coping strategy now—rolling and rewriting. I contemplate, in between long streams of smoke, what has happened to me. Why am I such a wreck, even though I know what to do? I know. I was worried it would be heartbreaking, but I got the validation I was looking for from the edit. So, what’s wrong with me? Why has it put me in such a state emotionally? I guess it’s the shifting sands. One minute I could see a castle, the next, just dunes of sand. Writing is just so fun. So why am I pouring my heart out on Substack instead? I should be working. I guess it needs to come out somehow. It requires it. Apparently, sharing my melodrama with you is part of the process now. Lucky you.

Why write at all? The sofa is tempting. So tempting. But it’s needed. Despite the cough, despite the cold, despite my trembling hands, I hit that keyboard with all my turmoil. It’s because of these moments of grace. Yes, despite it all, I’m addicted to them. To when the keyboard refuses to stop, when the ideas become all-important and unstoppable. I need it. I shiver for it. It’s either that or shivering from the cold, which I still haven’t fixed.

It would be so easy to pretend. To act as if it was all plain sailing. I know what some will say: writing should be fun, and I shouldn’t put myself through this routine. But half the time, it is fun. And the other half of the time it leaves me punch-drunk, my head too filled with characters, stories, meaning, and meaninglessness to function. I need to talk about it to my therapist again. If someone is punch-drunk with repetition, it must be her... poor woman.

I stare at Scrivener. A maze of files aptly named plot 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8… and counting. I feel the pull to add another one. Or collapse on the sofa for some more sleep. Decisions, decisions. I’m exhausted, but I must go on. I know that this is what makes the difference between the amateur and the pro. And I am a pro. Or, am I? Let’s not go there.

I’ve never been through anything like it with a film script. This is turning out to be quite a challenge. But despite the haze of smoke in the office, despite the coffee already cold, and the sweaty feet in my slippers, I keep going.

I knew this edit would lead to a full rewrite. I knew it even before the letter. So why am I being such a drama king? People are dying out there. They are hungry. This is just a book. There are millions of books on Amazon already, haven’t you heard? The market is saturated. Everything is saturated. So, why another book in the first place?

I have agreed with my therapist that I wouldn’t and couldn’t stop writing. It’s a need, something spiritual. Maybe this is just my way, or maybe there is a better way. A healthy way at the very least. This goddamn emphysema…

Amongst my morning fuzz, I’m reminded of Substack. I haven’t posted in a full month. That’s bad. People will forget about me, subscribers will disappear by the dozens. But none of this happened, not yet anyway. I’m scrolling through my notifications, coughing my heart out and wondering how many of you are like me. Find it hard, find it pressing. And how many have a healthier relationship with writing. I’m awed by the amount of us. Are we all writers—for real? Can it be true?

How many are up at this very moment coughing out onto a blank page? I lay down, headfirst, on my desk and remain, smelling the wood and feeling incredibly dramatic at the same time. And then an idea comes through me. A flicker at first. Is it plot? Is it character? I don’t even know at this stage, but all is soon forgotten. I open Scrivener and start typing like a maniac. My heart beats in my ears, the world becomes a blur. For a while, there is nothing—no cigarettes, no cold from the open window, no discomfort from my bare sweaty feet. Just me, the words, and that fleeting moment of clarity.

In this moment of grace, it all makes complete sense. It all aligns perfectly. And then, naturally, the guilt kicks in. I feel like my family deserves better, that I’m neglecting too much for this one moment. I feel like I should jump out of bed every morning and go for a run, shake those weird, heavy ropes outside, and cough out all the smoking. I wish I could write like this all the time. I sincerely do. But maybe one doesn’t fully choose. Or maybe I just need to get myself together and pull through. This book is stirring the beast in me, and yes, I know I’m being overly dramatic. But why stop now?

What good can sharing this on Substack bring? It would be so much easier to write a positive post. My ten tips for writing fresh in the morning, perhaps. Or perhaps some kind of promotion. I see a lot of promotions these days. Who needs negativity in their lives right now? But then I remind myself that I don’t care. I can lose all my subscribers tomorrow; I’m ready for it. Blogging will only ever make sense if it’s sincere, if it takes risks. At least for me.

I slowly let the smoke blow through my nose. My fingers are tapping the keyboard, in a pleasant rhythm. Outside the window, life is starting already, but I have time. Plenty of time. Will I ever crack this novel? I don’t know, but I know that I’m up, and that despite it all, I’m hungry for more. Hungry for the chaos, the struggle, and—yes—the fleeting moments of grace that make it all worth it. In the end, isn’t that what this is all about? The next cigarette, the next draft, the next wave of uncertainty. After all, what else is there but to keep going?