Proof Pages

My own work shames me.

Yesterday afternoon as I napped, the UPS man delivered the proof copy of my Christmas book. I was scared to cut the package open. I feared the knife blade might cut too deep and scar my precious book.

The phone rang just as I cut through the first layer of tape. I left the package on the kitchen table and ran to answer. I felt relief at the reprieve. I suppose a mother giving birth feels this same sort of fear — that this hitherto unseen thing, while you hope it’s ok, is going to be horribly deformed when it comes out and you see the thing in the harsh light of day.

Phone call over with, I returned to finish opening the package. At first glance the books looks ok. Actually, the book cover, one of the first I’ve ever designed my self, looked more than ok. But what about the insides? Does some horrible defect lurk between the covers?

I check headers and footers (the bane of my existence) and they are where they’re supposed to be. I check pagination against the table of contents — like counting the number of fingers and toes and other appendages. Thank God, they do correspond. Then, I check each graphic…

Ut Oh, I see pixels showing in some of the clip art; I enlarged it too much.

Will anyone else notice?

Can some doctor fix that or is my book doomed to live with pixels showing for it’s entire shelf life?

I feel sick to my stomach. I feel ashamed. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to read the words inside. I thought they were good when I wrote them but now I cringe at how banal they seem.

An old Shoe cartoon springs to mind:

Here I envisioned a wonderful book, an illuminated manuscript on fine velum, a book that would enrich people’s lives, entertain readers, honor God and uplift humanity.

And all I get is ink on paper.

Mediocre ideas. Stumbling words. Redundancies. Hatch eyed phrases. Pasted-together, warmed-over chapters that weren’t all that good in the first place. Redundancies. Just a plain old sit-on-the-shelf book like thousands of others.

It makes me ashamed of myself.

It doesn’t measure up.

Inadequate.

Once, I wanted everyone to buy it; now, I want no one to even see it.

I did the best I could but it’s not good enough because I did the best I could.

Does that make sense to you, it does to me.

O God, I am heartily sorry for these, my misdoings… I’ll never do it again…

But, who am I kidding?

I will do it again..

I know I will.

I’m a writer and this is what writers do.

Actually, I’m looking at the proof copy again. It’s got the cutest little spine. Perfectly straight. My name’s on it. And, come to think of it, the pixels are kind of cute too, they give it character, individuality.

Well, I’ll be!

After a while, the damn thing grows on you.

Here’s a link to the first chapter; and here’s a link to the last one.

Give me till the middle of next week to go over this proof copy for corrections and if I don’t screw up too bad, then Gravediggers Christmas & Other Tales will be available in my online book catalog at www.bluefishbooks.info