THIS FOR AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS

Panic as the proofs arrive
The proof pages for my new short story collection are in, and my loathing for it has reached new heights
AL Kennedy writing in guardian.co.uk, Tuesday 7 April 2009

Too much to do ... Photograph: Lauren Burke/Getty

Proof pages - nearly the finished article, but not quite. They're a good sign: they mean your book is almost done, almost ready to pack up its things, get published and amble out to meet the reader. But, then again, proofs are also a source of almost primal panic for the writer. If your proofs are awful, wrong, badly-spelled, oddly-italicised and otherwise dysfunctional, they are a very real demonstration of both your complete powerlessness within the editing process and your witless lack of talent within the writing process.

They alarm, containing, as they do, all manner of peculiarities and absurdities which have been added by strangers for no clear reason, along with the plethora of screw-ups which are utterly your own fault. How did you miss that non-agreeing verb? Did you ever know what this final sentence means? Will that character stand up to even the most cursory examination? Why did you ever think this was any use? Can anything within the compass of your meagre abilities be done to remedy this papery hellsbroth of shit? You try to hope so – tinkering with and slashing at your proofs: these representing your final chance of day-saving activity, or even just salvaging a couple of decent paragraphs.

This week, I went through the proofs of ALK book number 12 – a collection of short stories. (Yes, yes, there is very little point in putting out such a thing, but I like the form and my publisher currently still supports it.) I have looked at previous sets of proofs four times already and fully expect to do so at least once more. On each occasion, some corrections have been made, some have been missed and new errors have blossomed like dry rot in supporting beams. (And I know I'm missing other errors: I always do.)

Queries have been repeated, answered, repeated, answered, added to, answered ... By the proof stage I usually detest whatever volume is in hand, anyway – if only because of the simple repetition involved in rewriting. Try saying bassoon, over and over again.

Now try writing it over and over again. After a while it seems a meaningless and vicious imposition on your psyche, doesn't it? Now imagine repeating that hideous and alienating grind with 80,000 other words (this book does not contain the word bassoon) over and over again – same thing. Only worse.

Eventually every syllable sounds like the thunk of a small wooden ladle, swishing about in whatever appalling soup my skull now contains instead of a brain. My feelings towards this particular book have vaulted the usual paranoid, obsessive-compulsive reflexes and have achieved an absolute loathing I am surprised I can sustain. Don't get me wrong, the damn thing is the best that I can do, I wouldn't impose it on the book-loving public, otherwise. It is simply depressing when the best I can do leaves me nauseous.

Read the rest of AL Kennedy's full and entertaining piece here.