I Hate Editing My Own Work

Alexander came back to me some edits on something I wrote last week. I suspect he wants very much to treat me with kid gloves because he sees me as delicate (something that is partially my own fault, as I have endeavored to cover up my more bombastic characteristics). Part of me was all "he better make me feel bad" because that's the only way I'm going to learn. Then he did make me feel bad, and then I felt even worse for feeling bad in the first place. (I'm a mess, obviously.)
Like most writers, my problem is attachment. I get so attached to my work that I can't see it clearly. I'm like a someone in love: all I see is the piece, the good things, without any sense of reality.
Alexander beat me up somewhat badly (though this is nothing in comparison with some teachers, who actually want to make me cry. In public, is possible.)

Editing

Have been editing a short story today.  I wrote it at the end of last week, and asked my friend Caryn to look at it.  She said she liked it, which I guess is better than her not liking it.  Most of her corrections were little things, like where words were placed within a sentence. 

An Indulgence

I've been indulging in a little creative writing today.  It's always indulging to me, because most people would probably argue that I should be doing more constructive things.  What kinds of constructive things? I always wonder.  So few things have grabbed me so fiercely and have refused to let go since. 
I'm actually editing, which is not as fun for me as writing a first draft.  When I first write something, I'm exhilarated, I want to get the words out now, now, now.  There's something close to relief once I finish a rough draft.  Honestly, it often feels like I'll never have to revisit those thoughts or ideas again, because, thank God, they're out.  They're over.  They're in the near past, and I'm continuing on with life, sans a toxic lover that I care for but know I'm better without. 
I'm editing a set of poems right now.
One of the poems I'm editing right now is a strange set of surreal prose poems.  I sat in on a rehearsal for plays which escape my memory over a year ago, and I just started writing down all the nouns people were using.  It was an impressive cornucopia.  I decided I'd write some poems with it.  And I did.  Now I'm editing them, and it's tough because so much of the poem isn't about the words themselves but what they do together.  It's like a machine.  If you throw one cog off, the machine can't run; it'll just make puffy sounds.
Another poem is a rewriting of the myth of Arachne.  When I was fifteen, I was so sick of Greek mythology, because that was the sixth year in a row we had studied it in school, and I desperately wanted something different.  But it's stayed with me, all these years later, because I find that I write poems based on it and find references in pop culture to it.
One of the things that's really annoying is that my word processor started doing that thing where every time you add something it erases the space right after it.  I can work around it, but I wish I could figure out why that happened first.  Might be helpful.  

Almost Done...

Paper update: More editing today. Of all three papers.
Teresa of Avila paper: Attempted to rework the thesis. Still sucky, but less sucky than it previously was. Professor will probably hate this paper, and not without reason, but maybe this time he won't call the writing sloppy. I suspect it'll still be better than some of the other papers in the class.
Matilda of Tuscany: Kelly read and loved it and thought it flowed well. It's okay. I feel like much of the paper is "evidence dump," by which I mean there's tons of evidence but not quite enough analyzing. Still, it's better than the Teresa paper. It's a little short length wise, but this professor loves me, so hopefully, it'll pass. Plus, I pwned the essay exam last week. I should be doing well.
Thesis: God almighty, where to begin? At this point, I think this was the worst idea ever. There's way too much info. And it's such a boring paper. 24 pages of close readings, particularly feminist and colonial interpretations. Counting appendix and bibliography, we're talking 43 pages. This one's going to cost me to print out at the computer lab. My thesis adviser is a tough grader; I'm probably in trouble.
God, what I hate most about this is that nothing is ever good enough for me. I would feel less bad about my raging perfectionism right now if what I wrote was great, but it's only so-so.
Tomorrow, my plans are to turn in papers, maybe hang with some people (like my fav professors and friends,) read outside (David Sedaris, Dave Eggers, maybe Louise Rennison), and go to the bar with Erin.
But seriously, people, do me a favor, and pray for me over these papers. Going to need it.