Tuesday, 20 September 2016
I knew it was too good to be true. After about ten years of pleading, my darling daughter (allegedly) agreed to read my novel, The Book of Pain.
'It's only the proof,' I told her, 'so there's bound to be some mistakes. So just mark them and fold the page and let me have it back when you've done.'
It was my own fault.
Three days later I found the book under the several hundred pounds of stuff she abandons every time she comes through the front door. I've long since given up asking why she can't put it where it's supposed to go, because if you've heard: "You hate me and wish a bulldozer would drive over me,' etc etc, so many times, that I just don't bother anymore.
Anyway, she'd read the book and now it looks like it's been run over by a bulldozer.
'Just the mistakes,' I said to a scornful glare of utter malice.
'I did, look for yourself!'
Next time I won't bother, which was probably her aim in the first place.There must be a thousand red marks and every one of the 412 pages are folded over. I gave up asking her just what was wrong with a sentence beginning with a capital letter and ending in a full stop after she stormed from the room in fury.
I don't know what it was they taught her in that school she supposedly attended, but it wasn't English.
And another thing. I finally transformed my (hopefully) bug free book to paperback. But in the final copy, there's a blank page right in the middle. I haven't lost a page of the book but they've just put a random blank page in it. And there was me thinking CreateSpace had got their act together.