I'm now nearing the end of my structural re-write. Tomorrow should see it done.
Plot holes have all been filled in with a mixture of words and polyfilla. Characters arcs have been described, detailed and delineated. Whole sections that I laboured over, choosing the words with the scrutiny of Scrooge spending a farthing, have been excised. Never to see the light of day. Or the darkness of a reader's mind.
I'm nearing the end and I don't want to let go.
Because once it's out there, it can be changed any more. It can't be fiddled. Or played with. Or coaxed into shape. It's done. And dusted. Like one of Mary Berry's victoria sponges.
I'm sure I'll still want to change things. That line on page 216 still looks ropey. The way I describe Danilov's reaction on page 306 could be improved. Strachan's thoughts on page 67 might be a little clearer and less wooly.
But I won't be able to.
Goodbye, City of Shadows.
You've been a good friend through many a re-write.
I'll hate reading it later, I know. Because all I'll see are the mistakes.
As Mr Vonnegut said so precisely. So it goes.
By tomorrow, City of Shadows will have gone and went. And if that's an example of the rest of the syntax in the book, I'm in for a lot of trouble.
So to goes.