I am in a reading group for the leaders of my local attachment parenting group. We meet monthly to talk about new books in the field. This month's assigned book, a pathetic little book slim on ideas and very VERY poorly edited, keeps making me panic. Rather than grappling with the author's perspectives, all I can do it pray that people who read my own book will not be as critical as I am. And pray that my writing will not be as awful as hers. And that my press will give the manuscript to a decent copy editor to save me from humiliations.
* * *
Last night I dreamed that my book was already out. Although I am writing a historical study designed primarily for an academic audience, the university press decided that the book had mainstream appeal. In order to capitalize on that fact, they choose to publish the book as a piece of pulp fiction with a racy cover, with that fake butter guy and a plantation house in the background and everything. And the copy editor, rather than cleaning up any of my awkward writing, inserted weird comments in brackets to point out my foibles to all the readers who bought the book hoping for a romance novel.
* * *
And now I am totally crazy, unable to think about anything but the future of the book. I spent five hours without breathing this afternoon trying to do final edits. Then I hopped up and down for three minutes, knit a single purl row on Swallowtail (which, in its brand new incarnation, is behaving well), finally regained my ability to speak coherently, and then started craving spicy food.
* * *
Knit knit knit. I cannot imagine sleeping. Knit knit knit.