I had my first complete book meltdown last night.  I am waiting for two (lovely, wonderful amazing) people to read the manuscript and get back to me, I mean just tell me if it's shit or not really.
 But nada, nothing.
Yeah, yeah, I know I am being completely and utterly unreasonable, people have lives, hells bells, I had a life way back when, but this is driving me fecking crazy.
I just want to know if I am sending shit out into the world really...thats all.
I lose insight into my own writing once its written and it is just a shit storm of self doubt until someone who is not being paid for it, tells me its okay.  
Does that sound needy?  
It is isn't it?
Oh crap.  
Announcement!  editing is just as fecking hard as writing if not harder! 
 Because it means I have to let one other opinion matter to me and to say I am resistant to the process, is like saying the allies were resistant to the Fatherland during the second world war.  
I haaaaaaaaaate it, it is a battle of epic proportions, and we have to tape every editing session so there is withness so we don't end up killing each other.
When I say WE I mean, Scotty and me.  
Yes, my long suffering other half who has been propping up, the mass of insecurities and anxieties, that I call myself, for the past fourteen years.
Long suffering...well feck it, he knew what was in the package before he bought the box (does that make sense)  
He loves me, the idiot, I don't know why, I am about as easy to handle as a sack of pissed off cats with their claws dipped in poison.  Why he puts up with me is completely and utterly beyond me.  Apart from the fact I put up with him and his annoying unending adoration and support.  
Anyway, I melted down last night and it was loud and messy.  I know it is unfair to expect people to take time out of their busy days to do something for me, such as read a book, but geebuz, I am dying inside.
 Because this book is so different from the last one.  
My first book fell out of heaven.  It dropped fully formed into my head and out through my fingers and onto the paper.  It was a gift.  I'm not saying that it belongs to God and I stole it.  I'm saying that It had twenty years of it sitting in my brain, coalescing into a book.  
Then one day it started to dribble out of my brain in spits and smatters until one day (half way through the last year of my visual arts degree) the dam cracked (Like on lord of the rings before the Ents attack Isengard) and it rushed out in a torrent.  
I actually think I missed some of it, as it poured out so quickly.
Then, it was years of getting rid of massive chunks of it to make a cohesive fast paced story.    
Its not that what came out of the air was over written rubbish, its just that when I started writing the books I didnt have the tools in my arsenal like grammer, punctuation and structure, to serve the material.
Most of this book, the one I just finished, was actually thought out, agonized over, structured and written personally by me.  And trusting myself goes against everything I have learned and experienced in this mean, fecked up world (I know I know, I know,  I'm being dramatic again)
So I asked Scot to read the book, all the way through, in one go, (I gave him two days, unreasonable again) and tell me if it was good or not.
Okay, so he started and he found some errors...yes fecking errors in a book that has been microscopically edited by three people so far.  
So he was busy in his room reading and correcting when I waltzed in and demanded to know how it was all going.  I'd only given him an hour...yes I know unreasonable again, (who is this bitch)  
Then he told me there were still grammatical errors in it and I screamed...I mean, ya know, a full on horror film scream, 'whhhhhhhhhhhhat the fuck, no no no, how can there still be mistakes arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhhh'  Oh and there were tears and snotty sobs and dramatic throwing of myself across the bed.  Mines a single now and I smacked my head on the wall.  Duh.  'Jus tell me its okaaaaayyyyyyy'  I shriek,  'Just reeeeeeeeeead it and tell me.'
He said, 'I can' read it with errors in it, it won't flow'
'God feck aghhhhhhhh just tell me its gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood!!!!!!!'
Now, any other man in his situation would just lie and tell me it's wonderful darling, fantastic, the best thing I've ever written, blah blah awesome, blah blah fan-fecking tastic, blah blah.
 But not Scott.
He looked at my ravaged, puffy, pleading, tear stained face and said 'What Ive read so far is great but I can't tell you it's good untill Ive finished...'
I hate logic, it pisses me off.  
So, when I was finally semi sane I sort of, in a round about way, apologised by saying he could make me a cup of tea and some vogel toast with butter and salty chopped tomato.  
And he apologised for being so wonderful by making it.