Sturm und Drang und Papier: Or, Paper Tigers and Teapot Tempests

Cory Doctorow opined this past weekend that there are two kinds of writers: those whose teeth are set on edge by an uncollapsed wave-form and those who cannot abide a collapsed one.

matociquala is among the former. I am one of the latter.

This goes a long way toward explaining why I hate page-proofs so very damn much. Because of the little voice singing in my head, It's too laa-aaaate. If the book sucks, I can't fix it. And yet? I have to Read. The. Entire. Goddamn. Thing. AGAIN. Ergo, the stack of paper sitting on the corner of my desk like an Adamsian guilt god makes me feel inadequate and fretful without my so much as having to read a single word of it.

I know perfectly well that I'm blowing the whole thing out of proportion, and also that if the book truly and honestly sucked, somebody would have said something by now. But part of me, like a spoilt child, refuses to be comforted and refuses to be rational and adult about the whole thing. It just wants to lie on the floor and kick its feet and howl.

But I think, instead, I'm going to go have lunch.