Editing

I'm avoiding.

For the past four weeks I have looked across my room. I do not touch it. I try not to think about it. I've begun getting shivers every time I touch it. I can go days without even mentioning it. Sometimes I cringe when dear friends ask about. But the worst, the absolute worst, was when I used to open it. Four weeks ago, I would run my hands across its printed pages and sigh deep sighs of relief. Four weeks ago, I used to enjoy having it under my arm and showing it off.

But now, as much as I hate myself for this, I fear it.  I haven't hit writer's block. No, I've been writing like crazy for four weeks. Short stories, and columns, and anecdotes. I've been pouring out words from my endlessly typing fingers. Yet, I cannot direct them where they need to be. I've read four books in four weeks. All about doing the one thing I cannot bring myself to do: EDIT.

So tonight-despite the fact that it is Friday and I should probably be off galavanting with my cronies- I'm going to stop banging my head against the wall and pick it up. That's step one: Pick it up. Step two: the first. five. pages. Step three: edit.

I'm hoping to get through step one.