Writing fiction is a lot like watching a movie. It’s just as fun, only without the popcorn and soda (I prefer chocolate and wine anyway). Technology–writing’s thumb-sucking sibling that always has to tag along–sucks. Therefore, I agree with everyone who says, you do the writing, and hire someone to do everything else.
I’ve hired someone to do the housework. God, I love that girl. I love her so much. If I had to get rid of her or a family member or a beloved animal, I’d have trouble deciding who had to go. It wouldn’t be my mini-me, I can tell you that.
I’ve spent days–okay, weeks–revising the first thirty pages of a manuscript, because a contest-judge editor gave me some spot-on advice.
I loved doing those revisions. It felt like flying in a hang-glider over an ocean of excellent choices, because that’s how it is when you get a thoughtful critique that sends you in the right direction when you might have been just a tad left-of-center. My entry still won the contest, but after the revision it’s so much better than before. I’m confident that it’s as good as I can make it, which doesn’t happen all that often. Because my gene-of-perfectionism is a strong and vigilant beast.
My brilliant critique partners have blessed the revised pages. The virtual package is ready to send.
But I need to update my website first, because I have contest credits to add, text to tweak, links to load, pages to prune. And my strong, vigilant gene of perfectionism won’t allow me to send anything to anyone until my currently substandard website has been trimmed, twisted, tuned and toned.
So now, I’m stuck in the sucking quagmire of testy technology that doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, and the help button that’s rumored to be at the top of the page doesn’t exist. My husband had better know how to pull me out of the quicksand, because after two days of clicking the same button with no-better-result than I had the first time, I’m about to go under.