Just getting to the final edit in my new book, The Big Story.
I hate this bit. Because it’s all about mistakes. This bit is all about punctuation and spelling and references that don’t make sense and editors asking you ‘what did you mean by this sentence?’ (And of course you can’t remember what you meant by it. You can’t even remember writing the damn sentence in the first place. You probably just stole it from some other book somewhere, late at night, brain frazzled by too much caffeine. And now you’ve got to justify it.)
And the real problem is that you’ve done the book. You’ve written the thing and wrestled with it and thought you had it defeated, and now it rears up again and bites you in the butt. Rationally, of course, I understand that this is all good. Rationally, I know that of course it needs to be corrected. I keep telling myself that I’m MAKING THE BOOK A LOT BETTER.
After it’s done, after I’ve polished everything and corrected everything and tweaked it all, I’ll be really pleased and grateful to the good editors who continue to rescue my stuff from complete imbecility. At the moment, however, I just want to go and hide in the cupboard under the stairs. Where I keep the wine.