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I'm final editing my novel, FLASH Theme Park. The initial story outpour is my favorite writing phase. I allow the ideas and the pattern links to flow. The first edit isn't so bad. After that, I switch to a technical mind, look for gaps, and fill in details. The final edit is different and the most uncomfortable for me. If writing is like working on the ópus' of becoming more of who I am, the final edit is where I slow down and listen to what I am saying.
Step #1: I sit at the desk, place my hands above the keyboard, and read the story I wrote on the computer screen. I slow down and listen to my intent and where it gets shut down.
Step #2: Panic Zone. I brace myself from being dragged forward, heels skidding in the dirt. "No, no!" I protest. "I want to turn around and go back." The Forward Force Field may be invisible, but I know when my flee panic has been overturned. There is a fluid shift of energy, and now the Force nudges me forward, singing Elvis Presley's That's All Right.
Step # 3: I get distracted by an attractive side path on which I read a sentence from my novel and say, "That's terrible, horrible. I will have to start over." There is immediate relief because starting over means returning to phase one, idea outpour. Warning signs flash, and I'm told to repeat the mantra, "Terrible, horrible, start over," a hundred times, creating a dance to go with it. I vow I won't retake this side path by the time I accomplish this, though I know I will.
