Handwritten note and pen on notebook in front of small fake succulent plant and coffee with milk on black background.

The Edit

I plunge myself one last time inside of the story; it’s the final round till refinery. My eyes search meticulously for errors on the page; I’m critical, rough with myself, while my mind is eagerly maniacal.

Inside of my heart an invisible agitation groans like thunder; it’s a type of strange fascination that takes over.

I’m the scrutinising eyes of the editor; these words and sentences that trigger the emotion of the reader; I’m the publisher who calculate the probabilities and possibilities; I’m the eye that’s outside of my writer’s eyes; I’m the logic through which the dream is concretise.

I try to continue working at my usual pace and at a certain degree of cool attitude, but the words and syntax structures of these sentences are shattering on the screen… I find myself in front of a distorting work, a chimera that birthed out from my own mind, from my own imagination.

It’s painful to watch whole cities that I’ve built collapse because of a lack of solid foundations. I promise to myself that I’ll practice more, for practice makes perfect. I promise to myself that I’ll practice until I find my own writing style, until I make less and less writing errors.

I’m thankful that I have so many bad work on which I can practice my editing skills. Life ― the best mentor that I’ll ever have; and I guess, the only one that a stubborn person like me will ever listen to.

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put foundations under them.

Henry David Thoreau

This phase of edit makes my stomach churn, for it will soon be over, I confirm. I’ll concentrate, mediate, and go through these phases of inquiries. I’ll be so focused, I’ll be making so much efforts, that new pathways in my mind will interconnect. 

Then one day, not now, not tomorrow, but some day, all of a sudden everything will become easy, same as when I suddenly learned through instinct to walk and suckle when I was a baby; I’ll have the necessary reflex, writing will then be like spreading butter on a piece of bread, I’ll be able to instinctively write.

Editing is key, and now I’m an erudite in need of serenity, for focusing on my work in a calm environment is more important than everything else ― concentration dugs up memories.

When I’m editing I tend to disregard everything that can trouble my mind, because serenity is important for me to remember, to make one with the mastermind, the intellect. I can’t let my mind wander through unimportant things that will exhaust my creative energy. 

And I welcome everything that will help me gently swim out from the ocean of dreams to reach that stable state of mind where I’ll be able to concretise thoughts and stories through the right words.

Editing forms part of the creative process because amelioration of a piece of work for better understanding and smooth comprehension is a necessity. I came to understand that a writer needs to be as generous as they can be to the reader.

Thus I continue to edit in a focused, creative state of mind, fearlessly, with hope to be able to seduce what’s behind the reader’s eyes, and get that ‘je-ne-sais-pas-quoi’ wink.

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