Drowning in My Own Words (Editing)

I finished my novel. That should have felt like the end of something—but it wasn’t. The real work began afterward, in the quiet. Editing isn’t just about improvement. It’s about wrestling with doubt, precision, and the voice you thought you trusted. This is what that feels like.

Writing a novel gave me purpose.
It pulled something honest out of me.
The first draft felt wild and electric. Unfiltered, messy, and alive.
I was proud of it. Still am.

But editing is quieter.
More intimate.
It doesn’t demand action. It demands precision.
And with that precision comes doubt.

Not about the story.
About myself.
About whether I’m doing any of it right.
Every time I open the document, I see the version I meant to write and the version that made it to the page.
The gap between them feels impossible to close.

I read books like a midterm. I study sentences that work.
I try to make mine cleaner, stronger, sharper.
But the more I revise, the more I lose track of what sounded like me.
What once felt natural now feels like it’s under glass.
Every change solves something, but loosens something else.

There’s a moment in editing when you stop being sure.
And that’s where I am.
Grateful, frustrated, hopeful, completely submerged.
Not stuck, just deep inside it.

This part of the process isn’t glamorous.
It’s not a breakthrough.
It’s a slow return to the center of what you were trying to say in the first place.

And sometimes that takes longer than you expect.