Under normal circumstances, I'd never leave a book on the shelf for almost two months after finishing the first draft. I just wouldn't.
This isn't a work ethic thing; it would drive me nuts thinking about the book and not doing something about it.
The second I finished this most recent novel -- sorry, the title's still a wee bit up in the air -- I wanted to jump into editing. Like, I was hungry to do it. But I didn't.
Instead, I moved.
Then it was Christmas.
Then I was on vacation.
Now, some new, silly thing may be happening, but fuck it, I'm done waiting. So, I've got my manuscript, I've got my laptop, and I've got my pad for jotting down notes. The desk is clear and the room is mine.
Tonight: editing on the unnamed book begins.