I just cut
nineteen thirty-one manuscript pages out of the novel. Oy vey, but that hurts.
It took me days and days and days to write those
nineteen thirty-one pages first time around, and it's taken me days and days and days to revise them. And now I've gone and whitepapered them.1 Silly novel with the broken back.2
This is the part of revising I don't like, actually. It's not that I'm over-attached to the words (the last few days of revision have been painful, because there's been that nagging in the back of my head that something wasn't quite working…). I am, however, attached to the idea of progress. And somehow, when you measure forward progress by counting up the days words, cutting never does feel like progress.