There was a lot of talk last month about a potential "October Surprise." It never came. So here we are in November and...SURPRISE! It turns out that when you've got a deadline looming on the calendar, eventually you have to sit down and actually WRITE. THE. BOOK. (Or in my case, revise it.)

So it turns out November is crazytime.

I'm not the only one who poked my head up from politics only to remember that I have an actual job I'm supposed to be doing (and was supposed to be doing all last month and the month before, when I was, instead, reading political blogs).  Justine Larbalestier is in the bunker.  Maureen Johnson is drowning in a  sea of useless post-it notes.

And I'm staring past my computer screen at my unbuilt IKEA bookshelves, wondering when I'm ever going to unpack. You know things are bad when unpacking sounds like the more fun option.

I know. I know. It's time to work.

No more internet surfing, no more political obsessing, no more cookies -- well, a few more cookies. And then work.

In the meantime, can we discuss how much I want to marry Rahm Emanuel, just for the privilege of attending the Emanuel brothers' family dinners?

For the last few weeks, I've been laboring to get to the end of my new book, and last week, as the final pages finally came in to sight, I spent a lot of time talking (okay...whining) about searching out that perfect last line so that I'd be able to write my two favorite words in the world, "the end."

Well, mission accomplished -- last line located, end achieved.

Meaning I now get to start all over again at the beginning.

Ah, revisions. When you're working on the first draft, confronting blank page after blank page, nothing could seem more blissful than the idea of revision. Nothing could seem easier than having a book already written, needing nothing but a few corrections here and there, as if someone else (or at least some former self) has already done all the hard work. It seems, in one's imagination (especially the desperate daydreaming that settles over you as you're deliriously pushing through the first draft), almost like the kind of thing you could do while watching tv. (Okay, maybe not good TV, and maybe not vaguely mediocre but still riveting TV like last week's Heroes premiere, whose ridiculously large number of plot twists are still skittering around in my brain trying to make sense of themselves, but definitely a couple episodes of General Hospital. Not that I watch General Hospital...not more than a couple times a week, at least. But can you blame me, now that original recipe Carly's back, and despicable Michael is off the show, and Sonny is -- um, okay, how about we disregard those last couple sentences and return to the subject at hand.) (And stop judging me!)

Where was I? Oh. Right. Revisions. So the point is, when I'm sitting around all day coming up with brand new scenes and characters, all I can dream of is the revising stage. But now that I'm actually here...well, now I remember that it's actually hard work.

Sigh.

It would probably be even harder work if I were actually good at revising, because then I'd be much better at figuring out what kind of surgery to do to make my book well. Alas, a lot of my revising tends to be cosmetic surgery, giving the book a pert little nose and tight abs because that's easier than figuring out what to do with the fact that its kidneys are locating where its lungs should be and its veins seem to be pumping kool-aid instead of blood. The best revisers, so I've heard, dig deep and rip out the heart of their books, patch it up, shove it back in, and do so over and over again. (I often do so as well, but only on the urging of my editor. I love my editor. Even when I'm cursing her and throwing darts at her picture.) In one of my first writing classes, our teacher told us about a writer who used to throw out her first drafts and then rewrite them from scratch (ie, without looking at a copy of the first draft, except for the one in her head) as part of her revision process.

I suspect this writer might now be in a mental institution.

The fact is, in every writing class I've ever taken, "Writing is revising" was the silver rule. ("Show don't tell" takes the gold, since it sometimes seems like writing teachers, or at least my teachers, believe those to be the only three words in the english language). And with a sigh (and a resigned flipping off of the television), I'm forced to admit that they're probably right.

Still, the mind boggles at the number of things I could be doing, rather than taking a scalpel (or in some cases, a hatchet) to my pages and pages and pages of rough prose. Rather than dwelling on the things I'd rather be doing (baking cookies, eating cookies, watching Battlestar Galactica, enjoying Libba Bray's delirium), I find it more therapeutic to think about all the things that would suck more than revising. I could be at the dentist getting my teeth drilled; cleaning my room; selling cookies door to door; shoveling snow; reading The Red Badge of Courage; eating liver; dissecting a liver; on hold with Verizon; in gym class; playing volleyball; playing volleyball in gym class -- no, I'm sorry, that one's just too horrible to contemplate.

For all this, I don't actually hate the revision process (and I do find it far less terrifying than the blank page) but it terrifies me nonetheless. Nearly every stage of the writing process does, when I think about it. Writing a book is a little like throwing yourself off a cliff and hoping that somewhere on the way down you'll figure out a) whether you remembered to pack your parachute, b) where you put it, and c) how to make it work. (Which I suppose means that revising is hoping that once the parachute actually unfurls, it doesn't have a gaping hole in it, and if it does, you'll be able to patch it before you smash into the ground.) On the other hand, when everything goes exactly right, for a few minutes, you get to fly.

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Just out of curiosity, I did a google image search on "revisions." The first thing that pops up seems to be in reference to the British definition of the word (studying for a test), but I feel it's still apt:

What is it about my recent emails that has led gmail (which usually posts annoying ads and useless news stories in this space) to believe I'm in need of the following wisdom?

"Only the mediocre are always at their best." -- Jean Giraudoux

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm in any way affected by a bit of hallmark-worthy cheese dropped on me by my email server, but...

I think this is a sentiment I should have tattooed on my forehead. (Or at least on my mirror, at forehead height, so I could actually read it.) Because it would go a long way toward satisfying the "I suspect this may be a total piece of crap" inner voice that's on a constant rinse/repeat cycle whenever I sit down in front of a blank page.

Or I could just listen to this song again. (Oh, who am I kidding, I listen to it every day.)

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Don't forget to enter the contest and win yourself a free copy of SKINNED -- which I assure you is not crap!

"There is always a point in the writing of a piece when I sit in a room literally papered with false starts and cannot put one word after another and imagine that I have suffered a small stroke, leaving me apparently undamaged but actually aphasic." --Joan Didion

(Mind you, this may well be the only thing Joan Didion and I have in common, but still, that's a start.)

Ever have the disconcerting feeling that everything you think about yourself (or at least a selection of important things) is wrong?

Someone asked me two questions recently:

• Is your mood affected by whether you have a good writing day or a bad writing day?

• When you're having a bad day, do you conclude that your entire life must be somehow defective?

It took me about twenty seconds to answer 'no' to each of these.  It's taken me several days of reflection (and a couple bad moods) to realize that the answer is, in fact, a resounding yes.

So much for my vaunted introspective capabilities. Apparently I'm as clueless about myself as I am about everyone else.

Sometimes it feels like I've created a persona for myself, a fictional character named Robin Wasserman whose personality is made up of a series of "I'm the kind of person who" statements. (eg "I'm the kind of person who hates small talk." "I'm the kind of person who hates parties." "I'm the kind of person who hates change." and, apparently, "I'm the kind of person who loves to hate stuff.")

Am I so invested in this persona that I willfully ignore reality?  Is this Robin Wasserman character just somebody I made up, based on wish-fulfillment and self-deprecation and a weird inclination to put myself on the fringe of whatever group I'm currently trying desperately to fit into?

Last week, someone (a different someone) explained to me that a pathological liar -- a term I've used for years without actually knowing the definition -- is someone who believes her own lies. I'm pretty sure there's a distinction between this and the delusional person who can't distinguish truth from fantasy, but I'm not sure where to locate the dividing line.

If I'm basing my choices in life (whether to go to this party, whether to take this job, whether to write this book) on some mistaken belief about myself, drawn from a fictional persona that I accidentally created, am I lying or am I delusional?

(Just to be clear, no one -- ahem, mom -- need worry that I'm having some kind of massive identity crisis here. Nor do I think I'm particularly unique on this front. I just think it's interesting that, given the embarrassing number of man-hours I've put into analyzing and obsessing over the finer points of my personality, I'm still wandering around in the dark.)