So...I finished writing my book a week ago and since then I have done nothing with it. I have instead developed ulcers on the roof of my mouth as pernicious and damaging as dry-rot in a Cathedral's eaves and cooked an awful lot of soup. Soup is healthy and nutritious and most importantly can be spooned into a mouth like a haemorrhoidal arsehole in relative comfort.
And of course i'm putting off re-reading the book. I'm telling myself that I'm allowing it to settle, like meusli after transit, or simmering soup. But I'm not. I'm scared that it might be shit. I'm scared that there are jarring mood-swings, that the jokes don't work; that the central ridiculousness of the plot overshadows everything else and renders the entire story meaningless.
Enough cowardice. Tonight's the night, baby!