I’ve spent the last month revising my Sci-Fi book Rifted. My last draft was 114,400 words, but I’ve whittled it down to 99,962. I chopped 14,438 words from this thing. I killed off a lot of scenes that I liked, but they had to go. I dumped a whole chapter. I fixed dialogue and cut tags. I murdered widows (those single words dangling on their own line at the end of a paragraph).
Yep. I killed lots of widows by rewriting or cutting sentences.
Overall, I cleaned this manuscript up a lot. I’m happy about it, and I feel satisfied with the result. I think it’s probably ready to shop, but I’ve thought that before. So I’m going to give myself some time. I’ll sit on it, reread it, and re-evaluate. But later.
Right now, I’m going to enjoy the sense of satisfied euphoria at accomplishing what I feared was an impossible task when I began. I knew I needed to get the word count below 100,000, but I didn’t believe I could possibly cut that many words.
Still, I buckled down and did the hard work of revision. And I proved that I could. Self-doubt is the most debilitating kind, and I proved mine wrong.