In what looks suspiciously like a carefully curated corner of chaos on my desk, the proof copy of my latest book rests, casually, with a series of post-it stickers jutting out from the side indicated pages on which I have found infelicities in the printed presentation. The fact that there are only seven instances where I have found the spacing, print, illustration, font, type to be lacking suggests that I have missed a great number more that will later come to haunt me lurking on the 500+ pages that I have 'edited'.
Having duly sent off my 'corrections' to the printers, I sat back and waited for the presses to run and deliver my quota of books to Catalonia. Of course, as soon as the 'corrected' books arrived I discovered a fault that I had missed, but I trust it is one that others will miss too.
There is a certain type of word blindness in an author looking through his work for the umpteenth time, where sometimes glaring typos go unnoticed even after scrutiny that has to have noticed the fault. there is also a major difference between proof reading something and 'reading' it. Too often I am caught up in my writing to catch some errors - and that is not an example of arrogance, it would be a sad author indeed who did not 'go with flow' of what he has written and find pleasure in those phrases where he can hardly believe that he actually wrote them!
So, good, bad, or indifferent The Book is done, and done in good time for the official 'publication' date of the 24th of October. That date had to be brought forward to the 3rd of October to allow The Book to be given to the atendees at the Indian Buffet taking place in Cardiff in celebration of my birthday, in Cardiff because of the difficulty for some of the atendeeds getting to Catalonia for the day itself.
Before those celebratory days in Cardiff and Catalonia, I am luxuriating in that golden period between when a book is printed and when it is published and others get to see it. In that literary lull before profane eyes rake the pages, there is a tranquility composed of satisfaction at a writing task done, and the complacent anticipation of commendation.
That tranquility is, of course, short lived because no matter how cynical a writer may feel himself to be, the first comments (unless they be of untrammeled praise) cut into the beating heart of fainting confidence! There is no hypocrisy like criticism serenely accepted.
