As of Sunday night, the abysmal draft is done, or at least abandoned. From here on in, it's revision all the way, and an attempt to construct a viable beta draft.
Finishing the abysmal draft always leaves me malcontent and cranky, so I spent most of Monday stamping around and scowling. My head is full of nothing but the novel, only the novel is too big to fit. I can catalogue every flaw (real and imagined) in this draft, and I am itching to get to fixing them now, only I cannot start now, I must wait. I must read through the manuscript, to make sure my outline (which currently I stopped recording at about the sixth scene) is complete. I must contemplate the outline to ensure it makes sense and isn't entirely full of holes.1 I must scribble all the notes I will doubtless take during this process into the manuscript itself so that, come revision, I can start to tease this into its right and proper shape. Or pound it into a useless blob. One or t'other.
Today has been a little better: I've segued from being angry and itching to work on the manuscript into a calmer mood. I am also devouring books again, because I tend to starve myself of other people's writing when I'm working on an abysmal draft. I think one more night off should do the trick, and tomorrow I can start the read-through in the right frame of mind: not in the fever-flush of finishing which makes me rushrushrush, but not yet sunk into the lassitude which makes me care diddly-squat about this one because, hey, there's time.
In the meantime, I have some Asimov, Bill Bryson, and whatever's lurking under them to read, and only a single afternoon to enjoy it guilt-free.
- Or rather, I need to note where it is full of holes, and devise fixes. Same difference. Sorta. [↩]