Red Room Where the Writers Are

EDIT, I SAY! EDIT!

Everything is a go.

I've edited my book very carefully. I've checked, and checked again. I'm ready to publish! Hooray!!

I'm a self-publisher. Editing my own work is the only way open to me at this stage in my writing. I may never achieve what I want in any other way. At least I'll be able to hawk my books one at a time, and have the satisfaction knowing that it's something I did myself. I'm proud of what I do, and what I've accomplished.

I sent complimentary copies to people who may, if they like my book, tell others about it. Who knows what can happen? These things can escalate. After all, it's happened to others. And I order a copy for myself. It doesn't cost much. I pay only for printing and media mail. For that reasonable amount I have the satisfaction of holding my book in my own hands, and the pleasure of reading it the way others will be reading it. But I've been busy. I have more writing to accomplish, more tapestry must be completed for the cover image of my next book, there are family members to deal with, and somehow, time slips away from me.

One night, after another busy day, I finally have that pleasure of opening my beautifully printed book for the first time. And it is beautiful. The printing is top notch, the cover, an image of a small handwoven tapestry I've woven myself, has been printed to perfection. What a delight this is going to be.

I settle down, put my feet up on my couch, sink back into the pillow behind me, intent on devouring my book with my own eyes.

But, suddenly, horror upon horror, almost midway through my book, I see a mistake so obvious that it almost jumps off the page at me. It's on the next page too, and the next. For twenty pages, one after the other, my horrible mistake torments me.

I did it even after all that research, and all that rewriting. I did it after all that editing, and after feeling so proud and in control of my writing, and so happy with the results . . . there it is, the editing travesty of the century is staring me in the face, so obvious, so easily avoided, so downright careless!

Several apologetic emails later, to people I’ve sent copies, and several more hours fixing my manuscript, I’ve covered my tracks like a cat covering evidence in the neighbor kid's sandbox.

I publish to PDF again, upload to my printing site again, and hope that not too many people know how careless I've been. I feel hopeful . . . yet again.

This has been a lesson to me. I hope this will be a lesson to others. I know I'll never be that careless in the future.

Perhaps editing my own work is a mistake, but unless I can find ample $$$ to pay my writing expenses it may be the only way my books will ever be edited. I know that I must be more careful. I don't always see what is before my eyes, so I should set my work aside for a time. Let it sit someplace, untouched, and not look at it again for a few weeks.

What I see when I read it again may surprise me.