My Book is in a Box

It’s been a few weeks now since I finished the first draft of my book. Which means I’ve let it rest and now I’m supposed to start reading it. It sits yet in its protective box, the paper crisp and untouched. The book that I paid a rush fee to have printed. So what gives? Why can’t I make myself read it?

Because I’m busy. I’m busy with other things, things that I must apparently do right now. Such as…er…um…well…

Reading. Yep, that’s it, I can’t read my book because I’m busy reading other people’s books. Books about writing books. Oh, wait-

I know what the problem is. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’ll read it and throw it against the wall with disgust. That I won’t be able to make myself read through my entire story. That I’ll get bored half-way through. That’s certainly one possibility.

The other scares me almost as much. What if I read it and I love it? Love it so much that I won’t be able to bear making any changes? What if I fall in love with my darlings and cannot let any of them, even the weak and the uninspired and the insipid go?

“In writing, you must kill your darlings.” –William Faulkner

So, for now, my book stays safe in its box and I’m going to keep reading. Reading other writer’s stories and other writer’s books on how to write stories. I’ll call my reading research and I’ll keep reading while I gather the courage to read my book. I will.

I’m really not looking forward to picking up and reordering three hundred and thirty-eight pieces of paper. Is it hard for you to read your first draft?