Before retiring from the daily grind, my boss, who I unkindly referred to as The Tinkerman, would often ask me to write a progress report. After two days away from my desk it would return, a kaleidoscope of alterations in coloured ink. After re-submitting my report, typed and pristine, it would return, like a bad penny, covered with still more coloured daubing. Eventually nothing remained of my original report, but even so it would still be rejected by The Tinkerman, who had by this time, written the damn thing himself.
I thought the man was an idiot, but since writing novels I have, myself, turned into The Tinkerman.
After submitting my first novel to a print on demand publisher, who recommended professional editing but refused to fund it, I was forced, due to financial restraints, to give editing a go myself, even though I was rubbish at English grammar while at school, and have not progressed much in that regard in the last fifty-five years. I had little idea of what standard was required but after doing my very best it was finally published.
It received mixed reviews with most people agreeing that it was a page turner let down by poor editing, so I cancelled my publishing contract and self published. This meant I had editorial control and could tinker to my heart's content. I did just that, but every time I reached the end I found myself obligated to read through it just one more time, and every time I read it I found more editing to do. Perhaps the reason for this is because I'm becoming more adept at using my newly honed editing skills, or perhaps I have a serious mental disorder which requires urgent medical intervention in the form of a straight jacket and a padded room. I'm just off to the doctors to find out.