I’m editing the rough draft of my new novel. Picture me scribbling on printouts, and stabbing the delete key, and sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night, muttering, “This story needs a monkey.”
(Not really. Agent and editor: stop breathing into those paper bags.)
Often when editmania descends — and damn you, autocorrect, editmania is ONE WORD; STOP CHANGING IT — I lock myself in the writing bunker. This time, I tried something new. I strapped myself into a series of jet aircraft and edited at 30,000 feet, where there was no wifi and I had a nice little tray table desk, and well-attired people brought me coffee. That worked splendidly, as I flew from Austin to Key West to Orange County, California, and back to Austin, until my pen exploded from the altitude. Special thanks to my fellow passengers, who rescued me from all the ink. It did wash off in the end.
So now I’m back to the bunker. I’m going in, and closing the blast door behind me. Here, have a picture of some flowers to hold you until I come out again.