Feedback from samples of what I wrote over the weekend came back with this response: Too long. Waaaaaaaay tooooooo looooooong. Have I ever mentioned how I can’t shut up? Like when I write posts here and I can’t stop whining and I drive everyone away? Like right now?
Oh, yes, I knew the manuscript was too long, and I’m chopping, clipping, reshaping now. I could say much more about this process. I could talk about how, when I was a girl, I was too shy to talk out loud in a roomful of people—espcially a classroom—and the only way I was ever able to communicate anything worth saying was to write it down. I could say I held in so many things for so long and that’s why now I can’t shut up. I could say that all I wanted was for someone to read what I write, and when something is actually being published, when someday soon people will pick up the book I’ve written and read it—even if, especially if, these people are twelve-year-old kids—I just get so excited I can’t stop myself. Ask me for a story and I’ll write you a novel. Go on, ask me. Or maybe you shouldn’t. I could say much more about this, but I won’t. I am stopping
It takes great restraint.