I don’t want to edit my novel.

Not because I don’t love my novel.

My novel is like a brightly shining star.

That can be taken many ways. If it’s a star, its light must travel great distances. That takes a long time. If the novel’s words are the light, its light will not reach people for a while. So what’s another day or two?

If the novel is a star, it’s unique and alike, like snowflakes, beers, cats and people — and novels. It’s remote and unattainable, but inspiring and bright, a thing of beauty and mystery, something to be parsed, studied, watched. Something for wonder.

I don’t want to edit my novel.

And my brain is very happy with that. Come, let us write other stories, my brain says. It’s a beautiful day to start a new story, or to continue one you set aside. Remember that novel about the bookmarker? You want to write it, don’t you, I know you do.

Yes, I want to tear into that novel like it’s a fresh, warm piece of blueberry pie with a scoop of ice cream.

But I am strong, and I resist!

What about that other novel, the one about the woman and equations? You really want to write that novel, don’t you?

Yes, I want to write that novel like it’s a mug of cold ale on a molten lava day.

But I am strong, and I resist!

What about that other novel you’ve been thinking about, you know, the one about the weapon system that impairs people’s memories so people end up with other people’s incomplete memories, and try to live others’ lives? If you don’t want to do that one, you can work on the next novel in the Lessons with Savanna series, Personal Lessons with Savanna. You were writing a chapter in your head this morning while you were weed whacking. There is also the novel about when time fractured —

Enough, brain, enough. I am strong, and I resist! I will edit.

I will edit, I will edit, I will edit.

Oh, but to sample a new novel, to dip myself into those places and characters and let their chi flow through me.

I will edit, I will edit, I will edit.

I will edit.

Really, I will edit.