I’ve heard that writers are never really done with the books they’ve written. That there are sentences they’d wished they could change, long after the book goes to print. That even after it hits the shelves and the reviews are in, it haunts them like the memory of an old love they can’t seem to forget. Sometimes it becomes tortuous and sometimes they become cliches: the writer who is tormented by their own work, the narcissist who can’t get out of their own head.
I figured I’d be the exception to the rule, because that’s how everyone always sees themselves. We are different, we are unique, we are not the ones who will beat their heads against their laptops or frantically pace the room, trying to figure out the magic combination of letters and punctuation that will appease our self-doubt. By the time my book was sent to print, I