As I sit in Wild Joe’s Organic Coffee & Tea House, where I have now spent many a weekend day writing, editing, and re-editing this book, I am proofing the edits my book designer implemented for me last week. Is it normal to start hating your very own book? I can’t help but wonder this, as I’m hitting that stage very quickly.
More significantly, as I read and re-read each chapter; each journey through the high highs and low lows of Motherhood, I feel the emotions all over again. The silly, gleeful and heartelt moments cause me to laugh out loud such that my coffee shop neighbors turn and give me that half accomodating smile that says, “whatever you’re working on must be better than what I’m working on.” But the difficult stories–the ones of prenatal and postpartum depression, of isolation, of lonliness, and chasing after the impossible Perfect Mom role that I am never destined to attain…those are really hard to dredge up again and again. Now years later, the memoires evoked are still raw.
So, I guess I don’t hate the book so much after all. I guess if I can still tap into my own emotions that inspired the writing of A Dozen Invisible Pieces in the first place, it is still a worth while project. It is still worth putting out there. And after today, I am another step closer.