I’m reading a book.
The main character is remembering cuddling with her grandmother in Scotland as she learned to knit:
In the afternoon, they’d rake up the coals and get the heat going in the small stove, sitting in just their socks on the two-seater sofa.
Naked grandmother. Naked six-year old learning to knit in the cold Scottish winter. Just socks. That might not be what the author intended.
Maybe I’m just super-hyper-conscious about what I want to avoid in my own writing. I think I’m an okay writer. It’s definitely what I want to do; it’s my passion. While I know most of the rules, I know that I tend to ignore them or just steamroll right over them sometimes out of laziness — you see that all the time on this little blog.
I’m hip-deep in this novel rewrite. No, more like neck-deep, and OHMYGOD I’m such a bad, horrible, shockingly terrible writer sometimes. Truly. Many of my sentences are much, much worse than the one quoted above. Adverbs just fly. I was writing a romance! I let myself break those kinds of rules, and now I’m slightly horrified. I dunno. Some parts I like. Other parts I think don’t deserve the recycled paper they’re printed upon. Upon which they’re printed. Sigh.
So I’m just about done with the rewrite of the novel, but now the hard part happens — I’ve made all the line-edits and written most of the additional material by hand, but starting this weekend, I’ll be putting those all into the computer. That might take just about forever. I think I’ll make myself work three hours every day off until it’s done. And then I’m going to kiss it and send it off and get to finishing the next one.
Yep. And I’ll wear just socks while doing it.