And it's out of my hands. And not yet in them.
I never enjoy the proofing stage as an editor, the fine toothcombing and blurring of sense that comes from checking over and over again for rogue commas, consistancy with italics and lah dee blah. All very wonderful things in their own right, essential to meaning and tools for play. But when it comes to signing off copy, saying all is absolutely perfectly as it should be, then I forget the wonders and go to jitters.
Make that tenfold filibrations when the job is transferred to my own work. You've already been through the poems a zillion times for copy edits and tweaks in their lifetimes, so to then bring the cool eye of the proofer to them is like asking an ice cube to help a polar bear get home. Pass the gin.
But done. With the help of the fabulous designers at Waterloo and thorough friend Catherine who just happened to be staying in perfect timing to check over my checks. It's back to relishing the accomplishment and promising myself not to open the book when it arrives at the only page with a missing capital or a misspelt reference. Not that that would be possible of course because everything is absolutely perfectly just so. Chink chink