So my book is completed, and has been for almost a couple of months, but… I’ve now reached the stage where I completely and utterly loathe it.
I. HATE. IT.
I regard the entire thing with the sort of lip-curling contempt usually reserved for a dear friend you’ve travelled the world with and now despise. We simply know each other too well. Every time I open it up on my Macbook, every line seems to stand out as awkward, pointless, simultaneously unbearably pretentious and boorishly mundane. The characters are irritatingly, the settings banal.
In my mind this book of mine has no redeeming features whatsoever. No one could ever enjoy it, let alone want to publish it. Which is not a good feeling to have about something you’ve dedicated approximately 7 billion years of your life to.
Rationally, I know this is a dumb attitude – I’m battling a nasty case of what Nathan Bransford terms the Am-I-Crazies. Putting a name to it is strangely reassuring, to know that other writers (particularly other published writers) have experienced this exact tumultous mix of emotions about the stuff that’s poured out of their head.
Bright side: today a friend of mine who’s read my whole book from start to finish offered some really great feedback about it. Yay! Hopefully that’ll give me the motivation to end my pity party and just get on with revising the thing.