There’s something that’s always felt incredibly strange about reading my own work. It’s almost foreign enough that it’s hard to believe you wrote it and yet familiar somehow. Like a friend you haven’t seen in years and yet can instantly catch up with as if no time has passed. If it’s good it feels even more hard to believe that you actually wrote it, particularly because I’m notoriously difficult to please, as my post Monday explained. I know perfection may be impossible but perhaps making my book good enough that I would actually want to read it would be a little more plausible. It’s hard work, but definitely a task I’m willing to undertake. I’m both excited and terrified to be reading my own words, at length, in one go as one would normally read a book rather than in fragments as I often do when writing/editing. It’s one thing to read over short bursts of my work like I do when writing a blog post, even if I don’t necessarily like it, or want to second guess what I’m saying or whether it’s worth posting there’s a part of me that (perhaps because of the impending deadline of posting everyday) feels like I can take the risk more than I can with a book. Not to mention it’s a shorter medium where much of the rules of novel writing don’t necessarily apply, and there’ll be a new and hopefully better post the next day in case this one does badly.