How many times can you read a manuscript and still enjoy it? Still enjoy the journey? Love the characters? Have faith that the path you set them was right and true and sets them up where they need to be in the end?
How many times can you read your sentences and still hear a kind of music in them? How long before you lose your faith, or your heart, before you think “If I look at this one more time I will vomit”?
What if you’ve read it hundreds of times (you guess, it’s hard to count), combing through, fixing flaws, cementing it further in your mind, and you have yet to reach that point? If you still love it, still believe there’s something worthwhile — are you deluding yourself? Telling yourself it’s great so you won’t have nothing to show for those years? Or does that mean that there’s really something there, a life that won’t flicker out, and that someone else will see and cherish?
I hope it’s that last one.