Updated: Oct 16, 2018
Never again will I read my own book, and this is why:
Why not enjoy my own book?
You must understand that I am slightly neurotic, in the sense that I can only eat things in even numbers (such as cheese slices, eggs, M&Ms, etc.), must listen to music at a volume number that is a factor of five (I am being absolutely serious), and everything that I create must be absolutely perfect in my mind. I add the clarifier "in my mind" because I understand that it may appear perfect to others while still failing to meet my standards. I get it, but there is nothing I can do about it. Any errors found in my book are not from my own laziness, but because I did not (nor did my editor) notice them.
And this is why I will never read my book once it is available for purchase. If I so much as find a simple mispelling or an extra space where there should not be one, I'm not sure I could sleep at night. I may be so inclined as to pull the entire product from the shelves and issue a second edition, incurring a heap of costs in order to receive some shut eye. This is how I am, I know myself, and therefore, I can never read my own book.
However, this quirk goes beyond grammatical mistakes. Much like an RF Engineer (ooh, he knows things other than books), my work is never finished. One of the most difficult things in my life was sitting back in my chair after completing another read-through of my novel, and saying to myself, "It's done." Because, in my mind, it was not done. It could never be done. Upon every pass, I would always want to change a word here and there, alter a sentence to make it flow better, and if I allowed myself to pick through my own diction without any self discipline, then Soul Suites would never be published.
It pains me to think that I won't be able to read the story of Charles Pearson ever again. Am I tooting my own horn? I do not believe so. One may safely assume that I enjoy my own book because I am the one that came up with the plot and toiled away for several years to write it. Of course I am to enjoy reading a story that is as much a part of my being as my own limbs. Even so, I am denying myself the pleasure of opening the cover and diving into the depths of my own psyche, gripping the pages with excitement as I await the breathtaking, jaw-dropping pages to come. Alright, now I must be tooting my own horn. Though you understand my point.
And so it is with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to Soul Suites and gift it unto the world. I am like a father releasing my child into adulthood, realizing that I have done all I can to shape him into the best version of himself, and now I must watch helplessly as he is integrated into society. My child. My sweet child. May the brutality of our culture take pity on you. May everyone embrace you and listen to what you have to say. May you stay warm and dry on your journey through time. Yes, I am terrified, as I'm sure many fathers are, but I am also excited for what the future has in store for my prodigee. One can only hope that he will rise to greatness.