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The text that you perceive is not the text that you have written.
All drafts are illusion; all words are illusion; all readers are illusion; all questions of meaning are built of illusion.
So, too, with editors; the text that they perceive is not the text that you have written. To revise is only to alter the editor's illusion, the editor who is also a reader and so themselves an illusion. The market, that myriad of illusions, asks "Are they a worthy tale-teller? Can they change a dream's dream?".
This is only as air demands to be breathed, and not knowledge, for the myriad of illusions posses custom, and not knowledge.
The story is not an illusion; it is not the dream of the text, nor the dream of the artist, nor the dream of all artists. It is only itself.
The words are a signpost, a window, the edge of a shadow unto the story, and so others -- who are themselves illusions -- can find where the story is only itself, through the mist of words.
So it is that the dream of some words serves one story better than another, for if the story is not like unto a distance and the illusion of words is like unto a signpost, the illusions of readers who dream that they have found the story will be few.
Even so, the story is not always lost. That-which-is is glimpsed, and the illusions change themselves, because knowledge has passed through them.
This is not a miracle, but the nature of the world.
All drafts are illusion; all words are illusion; all readers are illusion; all questions of meaning are built of illusion.
So, too, with editors; the text that they perceive is not the text that you have written. To revise is only to alter the editor's illusion, the editor who is also a reader and so themselves an illusion. The market, that myriad of illusions, asks "Are they a worthy tale-teller? Can they change a dream's dream?".
This is only as air demands to be breathed, and not knowledge, for the myriad of illusions posses custom, and not knowledge.
The story is not an illusion; it is not the dream of the text, nor the dream of the artist, nor the dream of all artists. It is only itself.
The words are a signpost, a window, the edge of a shadow unto the story, and so others -- who are themselves illusions -- can find where the story is only itself, through the mist of words.
So it is that the dream of some words serves one story better than another, for if the story is not like unto a distance and the illusion of words is like unto a signpost, the illusions of readers who dream that they have found the story will be few.
Even so, the story is not always lost. That-which-is is glimpsed, and the illusions change themselves, because knowledge has passed through them.
This is not a miracle, but the nature of the world.
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But if it's any consolation -- finish _your_ novel!
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My name is not common and it always makes me jump when I hear it. AT the moment there are, I think, three dogs named Lucy at the dog park, including one that Truffle likes to play with. Really odd feeling. And now, looking at all those posts at Making Light which just say "Lucy, go for it," I should just imagine they're for me and take heart, but I'm a pill, I really am, and I sulk, because it's not me.
But I'm writing and writing.