11 Tips for Editing Your Novel
Anybody Can Write a Novel 2.0 Chapter 7 “Revision” – Section 7 “Editing”
“Words are the coins making up the currency of sentences, and there are always too many small coins.” -Jules Renard
Once you finish with the drafting phase of writing your novel (the process of perfecting the plot elements and making the text mostly perfect through the process of many rewrites), you will reach the editing stage. Editing is the point in the novel-writing process where we begin to fix all of the technical errors and try to make each word, sentence, and paragraph perfect for pu
Doll!Russia x Reader
"An old doll contains memories, and these memories will remain."
She had been warned, many times, to stay away from the attic. Her brothers had told her that nothing was there, that it was dangerous to step around, that there were whispers to drive her insane. In the beginning, she had chosen to believe them, not wanting to be cursed by whispers or killed from falling wood.
Being scared of the attic, however, did not cause her to stop thinking about it. Often, she would lay in bed, staring up at the roof above her, wondering what laid between the drywall and the attic. ___ dreamed of mystical things
call me sisyphus; my wrists
grip napalm nations & i am
parasympathetic. i speak
in cigarettes, more stippled
spinal cord than american
romanticist. sanguinary, pocked,
my pleural cavities leak
prozac pills & -
oh, this body has never
belonged to me.
oh, i'll take these muddled words & cigarette burns,
spit 'em out or sell 'em as cinema or cemeterial.
i've got these dirty fingernails hooked like cat claws
into my prey-heart through pericardium; i wanna trade
in this light head(ache) to admire snapping bones
or splitting skulls 'cause i can't keep the talk cheap
or the drum-beat outta (always best inside) my mind.
my spine has never meant prowess; i've always been your
favorite migraine, baby: all potential & no promise.
i was lazarus
'til i got sick of talking it out
(then i spat it up & swallowed it instead);
couldn't keep my splitting spine straight,
but i lacked the nerve for stuffing towels
in doorways. oh, my body was empty
vessels - i clawed tissue from
tissue, riven viscera revealed
my leaden bones to haunt this
head(case). i severed my tongue,
amassed my mania
to wake in six
by two or
i am all white noise -
ipecac gums &
the grey matter in between
my ears is cotton, tulle, &
vile, vile boy,
i wish i could spit out
in the place of
words & emetics
dead birds detach my
skull from my throat, split
my brain steam in two
my gods are clock-makers:
poets plagued to plucking at their
vulture-veins & (de)compositions.
nobody cares for hell-bound boys
until they pick apart their
bones or brains or
jut them out like funeral pyres.
i'm splitting vessel from vessel,
taxidermists - my head is
rotting to a holy land.
All you ever talk about is talking,
And that's fine, but do you realise that,
Talking won't help but make things so much worse?
I'm not being melodramatic.
I am tired of living, tired of
Breathing, but here I am, trying for you.
I am ashamed, guilty, and angry.
Not at you, per se, but rather myself.
For I should not have ended up this way.
If I were someone different someone-
Better. Maybe, I would not be so forgotten.
But all is well, that ends well, am I right?
You can't miss something you have forgotten.
You can't love someone you can remember.
Maybe, just maybe, I will leave tonight.
And will you have any idea?
Oh sure, you might not