Writing is arduous. Anyone who tells you otherwise, does not edit. Lately I feel as if all I am doing is editing. In the last two months I edited my novel, my novel in verse, and currently I am editing my second poetry manuscript. All of the above are book length works about different versions of the apocalypse.  I have also edited a lot of unrelated poems and several formal pieces of writing. The novel alone I have gone over at least six times. The first draft for me, is usually a very enjoyable rush, a quick, enjoyable plunge. It can be harder in parts, but it is always rewarding. Editing is less so. It is like cleaning a house, for months,  one lived in by hoarders.  Even though I am dabbling a bit, writing this poem, or that article, editing is defining more and more of my life. Like the created but unedited works reached a critical mass and I had no choice but to clean or move.

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