Indeed. How tedious it would all be if we were.
I’ve been rereading my own book – always a worry. Rereading, along with rewriting, is normal enough – an integral part of the writing process. But now, with the book gone to press and beyond recall, it’s slightly different. Because when – as I inevitably do – I find something that’s not quite up to snuff, could do with a rejig, or is just plain wrong, there’s nothing I can do, and I experience a tiny twinge of sadness for the missed opportunity to nudge it closer to the impossibly perfect version of the book I still hold in my head.
There are moments when, in a fit of egotism, I chuckle quietly at the good bits, the pithy one-liners, the occasions when a paragraph sings with the pure voice of a choirboy. But mostly it’s a litany of carping and quibbles, a low-key rumble of dissatisfaction.
“Didn’t need to repeat that word. Too many long words in that sentence. Don’t be a smartarse.” And so on.