I dove into the fourth round of edits on my fourth novel, The Wick Effect, fully convinced it was already gleaming. This pass would be quick, I told myself—just a final sweep for questionable grammar and continuity hiccups.

What was I thinking? Wishful. That’s the word: wishful thinking.

By chapter four of forty-four (yes, the fours are multiplying), my head was spinning like the possessed girl from that horror classic. I’d hit my limit but refused to spew green pea soup. Instead, I summoned an exorcist, also known as a professional editor.

But why the exorcism? I’d edited my third book, Life in a Neon Knapsack, solo, merely armed with grit and the excellent ProWriting Aid software. So, why did I need someone now?

Editing a book is a multi-layered descent into madness.

It begins with developmental editing (a term that conveniently includes mental) then trudges through line edits, copyediting, and finally, the ceremonial sigh of proofreading. I won’t waste your time explaining each layer. Just know they all conspire to shape a beautiful, cohesive story.

Imagine peeling an onion. The smell clings to your fingers. The sting creeps into your eyes. Tears drip down your face like punctuation marks. Then, in a moment of tragic reflex, you rub your eyes with onion hands.

That’s editing. Every layer a fresh sting. And yet, somehow, you keep peeling. But my knife dulled this time around. I needed someone else to dice the final layer, to protect my sanity and to help create a delicious main course.

I’d damn well better enjoy creating the story.

Otherwise, what’s the point? Why subject myself to layer after layer of literary mental masochism if the initial spark isn’t electric?

My writing process is called "pantsing" (a term that sounds like a prank but is actually a badge of creative rebellion.) It means I write without a rigid outline. No roadmap. No safety net. I fly by the seat of my pants when it comes to story, character, and plot.

And that’s exactly what makes it thrilling.

Each writing session is a blindfolded dive into the unknown. I don’t know what my characters will say until they say it. I don’t know what strange twist will emerge until it punches me in the nose—mid-sentence. (As if my honker wasn't big enough.) It’s improvisation with emotional stakes. It’s chaos at times but I love it.

This is where the magic lives—not in the polish, but in the pulse. The first draft is messy, alive, and full of surprises. It’s the part of the process where I get to be a mad scientist, not a janitor. And if I’m lucky, the story reveals something I didn’t even know I was trying to say.

And that's why I open my laptop, prepared to "pants", (even without pants), bruised nose and onion fingers intact, building layers that deserve a second set of eyes. Preferably ones not stinging from onion juice.

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