Reading your own novel starts out the same as a relationship. It’s a hot and sweaty honeymoon, on a tropical beach, with a bottle of rum in one hand and a lobster sandwich in the other.
But man alive, after reading and editing, reading and editing, reading and editing, it’s like the end of a ten year marriage to somebody you didn’t really love. And you only wed them because your parents laughed at their jokes, and they had a good job, and their friends weren’t total bores.
But it’s too late now, I’ve got the child I worked so hard for in my arms.