"While one is doing one's best, one must be detached from it." .... Err... I don't know if I got it right.
While the book is running at the press, the butterflies in my stomach wouldn't stop fluttering. I can't make myself open the manuscript again, unless, perhaps, I could face the fact that I have punctuations missing. I feel like an actor after a 7-month long shoot, that when she comes home, doesn't want to open her luggage again.
So went the uncertainties and unnecessary worries of being a first-time author. I'm putting my head on the block for chopping.
And while 'detaching' myself from my first work, I am conceiving the next. Yesterday I bought five books with somewhat similar themes to the one I intend to do next. Except the other one is by Iris Murdoch, and though not necessarily related, it gives me that different outlook to physical objects. I headed to the arts store too and got a few brushes. For the arts, says the French philosopher Merleau- Ponty, is lending the body to the world to give birth to an artwork.
Can't think straight.
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