I've always found this proofreading phase of a book manuscript both tedious and enlightening. Tedious because by this time, I'm sick of the book I've written and I want to write something else. Enlightening because enough time has elapsed since I wrote the book, I don't recall writing it, and I'm always surprised to read a book that (purportedly) will have my name on the cover.
Many times, when I'm proofreading one of my books, I find myself asking: "Who is this guy masquerading as the writer?" Couldn't have been me. Wasn't I vacationing in California during the time this book was being written?
Could be . . . but then I don't recall where or when I wrote most of the material I have written. This weekend I've also spent bits and pieces of time sending out manuscripts from my vast backlog of poems, stories, and essays. Most of the university journals and literary mags are now open to submissions, and September is the month to make a first impression. I've just about covered the country in my submissions, and there will be magazines from California to the New York highway to the Gulf Stream waters perusing my material. But I've still got a long way to go, and hundreds more to submit before I sleep. I expect to get many new acceptances, and will have to tell the editors: "Thanks for selecting my work for publication. I'm assuming I wrote it. But, frankly, I don't recall."
In proofreading some of my old files, I discovered material I didn't even know I had. But when I wrote it, and why I wrote it . . . it's all a deep and hazy mystery to me. Some of these pieces actually astound me, and I think: "By golly, I was a pretty good writer back then. This is superb." But the mystery remains.
I guess that's why I need glasses. I can't even read myself without them.
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