One of my works in progress is a science fiction romance entitled The Star Tripper. [Think Xena, Warrior Princess meets Star Trek meets Pirates of the Caribbean.] I aimed for 400 pages worth of manuscript. Star Tripper topped out at 598. Whoa. Talk about verbose. Apparently, I write the way I speak—too much and too long. ::sigh::

Star Tripper needed a trim. A few months back, I went through it to cut here and there, hoping it would do the trick. It didn’t. I was too emotionally attached to my brilliant prose to eliminate very much of it, and I didn’t make a dent. I cut only ten pages. Major fail.

Something, maybe many things, had to change. My work habits for one. I took some advice I received at a recent Mid-Michigan RWA luncheon program [Thank you, Darcy Woods!]. I ignored my email. ::gaaahhh:: I weaned myself off social media. ::gasp:: I turned off my Wi-Fi connection altogether. ::gulp:: I stopped watching TV. ::funny, didn’t miss that:: I did it all cold turkey and it was amazingly freeing.

I needed to change my mindset too, obviously. I was far too enamored with every word I wrote. Not long ago, I did some editing for an online publisher. I was objective and professional with the work of others. It occurred to me that I need to adopt that attitude when editing my own work. I needed to be objective. I needed to be ruthless. I needed to be page-slashing Machete Woman.

On my first day as my new persona, Machete Woman, I cut five pages from chapter one. On the second day as my new super hero MW, I cut five pages from chapter two. That was as many pages total as I cut during my first round of cuts. Wow! On day three, I cut four pages from chapter three. I cut four pages from chapter four on day four. Yay, me!

Last night, I revised chapter twenty-two, cutting seven pages, my best effort to date. As of yesterday, my total of pages cut is eighty-six. I have twelve more chapters to go, and the new me is rocking the cutting.

Machete Woman rules! 

Seriously? O typical first draft is more like it.

As such, it was a much too long exercise in exorcising the ideas and characters swirling around in my brain by typing them out of my mind and into a computer file to relieve the pressure on my skull from their insistence on being written. Whew! The end product of this exorcism was 600 pages of action, adventure, and romance in the 23rd century, interspersed with unavoidable side trips into first draft crap.

The exhilaration that came with completing the first draft of a manuscript, no matter how crappy, lasted a few idyllic days. My feet didn’t touch the ground. I never stopped smiling. I was nice to everyone, even people I couldn’t stand.

Once I came down out of the clouds I had to face reality, otherwise known as the rewrite. It was time to perform editorial surgery on the child of my imagination. Scary. I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to do it. With shaking hands, I fortified myself with a bagful of Lindt’s Lindor Extra Dark Chocolate Truffles. I probably would have done that anyway, but having to jump start the rewrite gave me a guilt-free excuse.

I began to pore over the annotated chapters from very productive sessions with my critique partner. I reviewed her comments about what she thought worked well and what didn’t. Wow, these chapters are sooooo long. No wonder the manuscript is page-heavy.

Gotta cut, gotta cut, gotta cut!

The first challenge appeared sooner than expected–in the first chapter. The scene, one of my favorites, was a funny one. Well, the exchange between the heroine and her alien BFF made me laugh. I read it and laughed. I then re-read it with increasing dread, because I realized that this one of my darlings did absolutely nothing to advance the plot or bring out a new facet of the relationship between the heroine and her alien BFF. It was a distraction and it slowed the story’s pace. It had to go.

I couldn’t believe that I was about to kill my darling funny scene. ::sob::  I selected the scene and paused, my finger hovering over the delete key. No. My finger pulled back. I could not consign my darling funny scene to oblivion. It deserved better.

In my manuscript’s directory, I created an Orphaned Scenes subdirectory. My darling funny scene entered its new home, perhaps to live again in another manuscript–maybe in a sequel. I said farewell and soldiered on, continuing to read my manuscript with a critical eye.

Two things occurred to me early on. First, that my darling funny scene would eventually have lots of company. Second, I was going to need several more bags of Lindt’s Lindor Extra Dark Chocolate Truffles.

Hmmm…The prospect piqued my curiosity. I took an editing course as a college undergrad, and I edited for an educational book publisher several years ago.

Hmmm…I wouldn’t mind making a few extra dollars while turning old and gray waiting for the publishing world to discover me.

Hmmm…Surely, it can’t hurt to look into becoming an editor—except for one sticky little detail. Becoming an editor means turning on my own kind, becoming every writer’s nemesis, and crossing over to the dark side. What would my writing buds think of me?

My curiosity, and my lust for a paycheck, got the better of my conscience. I went to the publisher’s Facebook page, and I responded to the “editors needed” post indicating my interest.

The publisher’s speedy email reply was two single-spaced pages long. It contained detailed information about the publishing house, the romance sub-genres it publishes, what it requires of its editors, its editorial pay scale, and its three-part application process. If I was still interested, the publisher instructed me to begin the application process by completing and returning an attached editing test. The test contained plot holes, content conflict/errors, POV issues, errors in grammar and punctuation, and then some.

Oh, heck. In that post about needing editors, nobody mentioned anything about having to take a test. Darn. I don’t particularly like tests. I didn’t test well as a student. Taking tests stressed me. I was more of a post-test genius. I remembered all the answers I couldn’t think of only after the instructor collected our test papers.

Oh, well. I suppose I could have decided not to take the editing test, but there was that prospective paycheck to consider. I clicked on the attachment, opened the doc file and read the test manuscript.

Oh, dear. It wasn’t a test. It was a minefield within an obstacle course within a maze. I read through it again to make certain my eyes hadn’t played tricks on me.

Oh, shoot. They hadn’t. [sigh] When I proofread, I find that errors are more visible on a printed page than on a computer monitor. I printed the ten-page test to get a better look at it before I completed the test in a Word document.

Oh, wow. Errors peppered the manuscript, and some were downright devious and not all that easy to detect. I’m convinced that the test’s creator has a mean streak at least a mile wide. I scoured the manuscript for hours. Every time I was sure that I found the very last error, I read through the test again only to discover that I missed yet another.

Oh. My. God. My eyes begged for mercy. My eyes and I developed renewed respect for editors who possess the patience and tireless dedication needed for finding and polishing literary diamonds in the rough. If I pass the editing test, I would be proud to join their ranks.

I sent in the completed test, and I am waiting to hear back. I don’t have a good feeling about passing. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t test well. I must catch and correct more than 75% of the errors in the manuscript to pass the editing test, and I must pass the editing test in order to advance to part two of the application process.

Wish me luck. I think I’m going to need it, because I consider myself fortunate to catch 75% of the errors in my own manuscripts.