The egg race draws to a close

In three days I am due to file my second novel, The Egg Race, to my editor. I shouldn’t be here, writing website entries. Or booking fake tan appointments. Or browsing Amazon. I should be engaged in manic 11th hour tweaking. The problem is that after ten intense months spent writing the damn novel, I can hardly bear to look at it. Not that I’m complacent. But the disheartening thing about the editing process is that it doesn’t matter how many times you rewrite and reread, a text can always be improved. (This is why reading old published work, whether fiction or journalism, is so excruciating. Shit, you think, did I really write that? Give me a red pen now.) The last lap is also the period when I am most prone to creative naval-gazing. My latest anxiety? That I’ve enjoyed writing The Egg Race too much. And now that I have my own office, an ergonomic chair and great childcare, it’s all too cosy. Should I be suffering more? Did I write better on that spine-abusing kitchen chair? I’ll soon find out. Editors, unlike me, rarely mince their words. And they have fearsome red pens.