I find myself wondering what 50,000 words even means when they've been scoured, turned inside out, eradicated from existence, and recreated in a handful of days. I keep thinking of the typesetters in the Discworld trying to wrap their minds around recycling deleted words, and how even Terry Pratchett's work suffered from from poor proofing. This from a review.
HOWEVER, the state of the proofreading was APPALLING, to the point where I want to return the book. The typos and misplaced words were so frequent that they diminished my enjoyment of the story. If you care about value for your money, buy the paperback. I'm very resentful of having to shell out so much money for a hardcover book, only to see it so poorly put together. Grrrr! BAD Harper Collins!
I've once again been abruptly awakened by something as silly as the erroneous math equation "970 divided by 210 equals 5", aaaaand I just discovered my keyboard seriously lacks a division sign. Anyway, I woke up immediately doth protesting, and then plunged straight into wondering whether Shakespeare found himself awake at godawful hours craving chocolate chips and demanding to know from the universe what is more important, needing more sleep or needing to acknowledge the revelation that one has survived a life in 17 tragedies and can still giggle about ripping an imaginary e out of existence being a conundrum.
Text convo yesterday with my kid, who saw me at my very worst and still says things like "I adore you". Coming from the childhood I did, that alone tears me up every single time.
Ur going to love my book. Full confessions, daring to go over lines. Feels like I'm writing poetry.
I've been anxiously waiting.
I've always known you were pretty bad a**. Have always wondered about the stuff I knew I'd never heard.
It's all coming out.
I'll bet it feels good to air it out.
Oh god yes.
I've always thought of you as one of God's warriors. You've punched evil in the face.
I told my beta reader I want to devastate my readers as gently as possible.
U got it, I'm about to do just that.
That sounds like an oxymoron, but I get it.
It probably lends a bit of depth to know I was a horrible parent, telling her to lie in a ditch if the cops came, raising her on Rocky Horror and David Lee Roth in assless chaps, leaving her behind over and over to find my way out of another set of life's brambles.
Bending my mind around this song being remade into something so sadly beautiful around an alt world pilot that never aired wrings my soul. I've lain awake so many times in my life contemplating the dreadfulness of existence being meaningless, excepting that every single anguished point of view is a unique story that cannot be told any other way, and that our intersections are what save our souls from true oblivion. For the ability to lie awake with thoughts like these, I would lose a lifetime of sleep and count myself blessed.
