My Own Personal Fauxpocalypse

I have just finished compiling edits for the last story but one in Fauxpocalypse; so it is all coming together. As a definite release date becomes ever more real, I am filled with ambivalence: the pleasure of forthcoming publication wars with the fear of what is still to do. For the last story to be edited is mine.

Intellectually, I can predict from the work required to redraft Thieves in the Night after peer editing, and from people’s comments on my work in general, that reworking Shoulders of Giants will not be a horrific task. It is even quite comforting knowing that I have direct control over how fast the story most likely to delay release is resubmitted.

Emotionally, I haven not yet quite escaped the fear that Shoulders contains a horrifying error, a plot-hole so deep, a characterisation flaw so pervasive, that the edits will exceed the manuscript itself.

I have, so far, resisted the urge to look over the current draft to reassure myself it has merit. However, I do have images of my wife returning home to find me buried in a pile of disordered pages, having decided to tweak just one literary loose thread.

Of course, it is not as bad as feelings of inadequacy from rejection, but the wonders of the human mind make it quite stressful to be accepted, too.

And, of course, I am not unaware of the irony of living the transition from looming disaster to business as usual for this particular project.


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