Novel Update
Last November I finished writing the first (and very rough) draft of my first novel. Since then, I have been stuck in “revision-land.” I am somewhat happy with the result, but there is still so much more to do. I actually let the work sit untouched for a few months before I even picked up my little red pen for editing autoposy. There is blood everywhere.
Right now, I am tweaking plot and characters before finalizing all the bad grammar and other errors. Got some great stuff going in—very excited about it, but still a ways to go. I hope to have a “presentable” second draft by Christmas.
Until then, enjoy Anne Bradstreet's (1612-1672) poem, "The Author To Her Book":
"Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door."
