Languishing...

I managed to edit a chapter and a half today on The Preparation. I so hate it, though - very much. It feels like I'll never be able to get it right, never get to the point where I can say, "Hey, this manuscript is in good shape. This story is tight and readable." I like the story; I have liked it since I first wrote it. God, I think it's been two years now, and here I am still working on editing it. Feels absolutely hopeless. 

This is just how I feel, though. Rationally, I know I need to just press on. Every day is a new opportunity for me to BE a writer. Every day is another opportunity to live in that creative haze - that world where I am a god and control the fate of countless lives, everything resting on the sheer will of my imagination. I like this world. I love my characters. I like that I'm now exploring freely - experimenting - or, at least, wanting to. I know grammar is finite, albeit often grossly subjective. There is, though, a right and a wrong way for the most part in writing - in constructing sentences, in tightening up prose. But these are simply tools writers use. Mechanics, apparati [latin ;-)] - it is not the story, though. The story is what unfolds in the writer's mind, what takes shape as he/she sits quietly in the coffee house early in the morning in Paris, watching the sunlight stretch its narrow fingers along the narrow brickwork of the surrounding buildings. It is the characters' actions and behavior - their personalities - that slowly percolate in the author's mind as they stroll along amidst their daily affairs. 

I edited a chapter and a half today. Thank God. I also did more research into Gnosticism, though it is going way too slow for me. I'm starting to feel the itch - or at least the obligation - to be writing every day again. I guess I'm missing the creating. I'm so impatient, but maybe that is a good thing.