Proof-reading ~ approved reading

So when does correction become rewrite and rewrite become tedium, tediosity, boringsville? I wrote my first full-length manuscript four and a bit years ago and thought that was it, fini, fame and fortune, job done.
It turns out there is no definitive ending to a novel if you really care about your work and don’t want to be seen as an illiterate imbecile who can’t be bothered to do the extra stuff required to polish the undoubted turd that any first draught will be. Of course in the excitement of finishing your early work you think that’s it, send it off, show everyone, it’s bound to be loved, published, turned into a tv series/film, receive plaudits and make a fortune.
Now I look at my words and wonder how I ever thought I had the skill to entertain people with such drivel although admittedly there are some fantastic ideas in there, they just don’t get chance to shine through because the writing’s like surfing through sludge.
Anyway, a chapter got a thorough spanking and a new pair of cotton panties so hopefully if it ends up scuffing its knees and the ambulance crew, for whatever bizarre reason, need to check for clean underwear everything should be okay but who can tell?
Only another thirteen chapters to go and I might have a serious proposition to send out to face the vicious bullying of the older kids who never managed to do their own work so they got a job in an agents office from where they can belittle the truly talented but in the nicest, precisely worded, stock emails designed to wound without twisting the barb so deep the recipient gives up wasting their time presenting work to the terminally incapable, the dim-witted and the plain uninterested.
The only places available to the new author are already booked in the names of Mrs celebrity cookbook, Mr real-life disaster that could maybe lead to a film deal, Ms not very famous but with enough c-list kudos to cover costs and Mr Oxford masters in literature, studied on various creative-writing courses, read a ‘how to write a murder mystery’ book so gaining just the right amount of similarity to the greats who never dreamt of such idiocy; oh yes and one is an old Eton school-chum of the editors son.
Sycophants, irascible old codgers and frustrated novelists unite, publish and be damned sir Nigel

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