I'm learning, slowly. Revisions are a necessary evil in writing. After glowing reviews from friends and family, I honestly thought I did not have to do much. I hate revisions. Revisions are work. And all in all, I like to avoid extra work. But the people who are actually willing to tell me I need to do them, are correct. My first, second, third, and maybe even fourth draft are rubbish. I must do revisions. I must find a way to get it done.
I live in Oregon. I don't know if that's evident in my "complete profile" and I am not tech savvy enough to spend the time to figure it out. In any case, if you don't know, Oregon is probably one of the wettest states in the US.
I've been spending a lot of time just writing, looking out the window, and writing some more. Also, I must police my two German Shepherds. When I'm home, nothing less than 50 trips in and out of the backyard will satisfy. They act as if their bladders cannot possibly hold it for more than twenty minutes at a time. I know this not to be true. When I work a ten hour shift, I come home to dry floors.
I believe getting muddy is their singular goal in life. As rainy as Oregon is, I tend to let them out separately. This creates extra work for myself - standing there, waiting for one, then putting the next one out and waiting again - but really in the end it saves me from having two completely muddy dogs.
It has been uncharacteristically dry these past few days and I decided the dogs deserved to romp around the big back yard. An hour later, I was jarred out of my revision time on my MS by the sound of thumping and romping on the deck. I looked out the glass door to see my mostly white dog was now mostly brown, and I couldn't really assess the mud damage on the mostly black dog. Though, her usually tan stockings were now as black as her backside, so I assumed the worst.
Where had they found the mud? Did they just get their feet wet then tromp around in the dirt? Where had they found the water? These are things I must wonder about. If you've never tried to wrangle two 80 pound dogs, downstairs and into a bathtub, you're missing out in life. They almost prance with pride . . . until they understand where they're going.
As I sit now with two clean dogs, exhausted from their mud play and baths, it occurrs to me, if they can find a way, on a dry day, to get muddy, then perhaps I shouldn't so easily give up revisions. I suppose there is some truth to "if there is a will, there is a way." Then again, perhaps I am just reaching for any inspiration I can find to keep plugging along.