Editing is a strange endeavor. I am very good at it. But I find that, given my extreme susceptibility to identifying with others, the task frequently leaves me without words of my own to communicate. In striving to inhabit the voice of my author, I neglect my own voice to such an extent that it seems to be coming to me from a foreign language.
Indeed, I often find it easier to speak in the voice of another than I do to speak as myself. While this is an extremely deep-seated problem, manifest in most aspects of my life, it is a particularly pressing concern when I'm attempting to write. Few things make me as happy as the feeling of having built up serious momentum at the keyboard. But if the flow I attain is not one I recognize as my own, the sense of release is muted at best.
This is a circuitous and rather somber way of explaining the tremendous sense of relief I feel in knowing that I can consign the 65,000+ words of that have been crowding my consciousness to the filing cabinet of memory. Now if I could just manage to start filling the void left behind by their departure with my own prose, I'd be set.