Time does funny things to memories. Childhood Christmases appeared more colorful with gifts piled so high around the towering tree you could barely see it, and delicious food strained every table with their fat-laden weight. In reality, you found four packs of Smurf underwear and a bag of M&M’s under a Charlie Brown tree while Uncle Ralph poured homemade hooch in the eggnog. You gilded your memory.
Or maybe you have memories that make you cringe. Perhaps a verbal barf-fest committed in eighth grade English in front of the boy you liked, and you’re positive everyone noticed and still gossips about it today (Oh-my-God, remember that girl with the bad acne and head gear who declared her undying love to the football God Jake during Mrs. P’s English – what a loser). In reality – absolutely no one remembers, and no one noticed then either. You were a teenager; teenagers don’t notice each other beyond how it affects them. Teens are too focused on their own angsty feelings, budding breasts and ill-timed hard-ons to pay attention to your pathetic existence.
Writing works like this. Sometimes I believe my book glows with literary brilliance, a beacon of truth and humor, irresistible to all agents and editors, a bastion to all who value wordsmithy and wit. But right now, dear reader, it sucks like a mail-order Russian bride. Every chapter, page and word bores me. I want to burn it, mix the ashes in concrete, then dump it in New Jersey – mafia-style. Overkill? Perhaps.
If you can’t tell, I’m revising again. I have a good grasp on the needed changes, and as soon as my ink arrives from the FedEx Chariot of Printing Salvation, I can finish printing and highlight the hell out of it. I plan to mark every passage needing work. I expect it will look like a neon rainbow under a black light by the time I’m done.
The reality, dear reader: it probably isn’t as bad as I think. I have a strong plot, good imagery, interesting characters, and – most importantly – determination. As long as I have ideas on how to improve, I shall keep working on it. Now, if only I could get some of Uncle Ralph’s hooch.
Get more of me on Twitter @aereichert.
