It occurred to me this morning as I was working on what will probably be the second-last edit of my novel The Great Dagmaru, that editing is an inherently ugly process. When I read my novel as a whole, it’s like taking in a picturesque landscape, with rolling hills, still lakes and vividly coloured birds, twittering and flitting from branch to branch.

But as I edit it, sentence by sentence, all I can see are the caterpillars, munching on the leaves and weaving themselves gauzy tents where they squirm like maggots. My job, of course, is to get them outta there looking like pretty butterflies.

It’s easy to get discouraged when I’m gazing at my work under a microscope. I agonize over single words; I look at them sometimes until they cease to have meaning. I forget how phrases go together in natural speech because I’ve contemplated them for too long. Thankfully this only happens occasionally. There are also parts which I can read through and not want to change a thing, except to delete a word here and there.

Today, however, the ants are crawling with the spiders and the worms are aerating the ground to allow for new growth. And I’m seeking oxygen to keep going.