It’s been a funny ole’ week.
Since last Saturday, when I put the question of the blogging book to the populace (and got a subdued reaction – although I appreciate the opinions that were expressed), my mind has been full of thoughts of grandeur.
I was going to begin my own little publishing company. I even had the name picked out. I even did a business register search to see if that name, and the website moniker, hadn’t already been picked out (it hadn’t). Naturally, this led me on to wondering about copyrighting and contracts and money and blah blah…
I then became anxious because I KNEW, KNEW! this road would take me away from writing, and so the idea lost a lot of it’s shine.
And then, today, the completed family history book – the one I’ve spent the past three or so months on, arrived back, and after the first few excited seconds, after I stopped staring at it with kiddie joy, I looked at it with the same keen eye I peruse every book. It’s not perfect. The margins, all of them, were way out. I perhaps should’ve used another font because – shit- Times New Roman has got to be THE most boring one out there. I found a grammatical error I passed over all FIVE proofreads I gave the manuscript. My perfectionism (or lack thereof) didn’t hold water with a non-commercial piece. God knows what a pro job would turn out.
(The words it contained though were top-notch. Good job family!)
This is my black mood of pessimism here that I’ve been struggling with because on turning my back on this non-career potential, I return again to the writing and, God knows, every little piece I turn out lately feels like crap.
Like this one. I do apologise.
Carry on. As you were.
