Proofreading or what makes me crazy

I hate reading what I wrote. Not that I don't like the story anymore. The story's fine. It's every single mistake I made that upsets me. Repeating the same word over and over again, like someone being desperate again and again for three paragraphs (they may be, mind, but there are different ways of saying that!). Stupid use of adjectives. The urge to leave "damn" in the text. Constant grammar struggles. And the fact that I never seem to achieve the right balance between the description and non-description. Is it too much? Or is it not enough?

Unfortunately, I am a perfectionist. Following the same principle of things, I absolutely hate cleaning. It's never perfectly clean, and there will be a (damn) tangle of hair and dust somewhere in the corner, no matter how many times I vaccum.

Some say I am too hard on myself. That I should relax. Life isn't perfect and neither are novels. Dust is a part of life, no matter how much you wish to get rid of it. There will always be some, unless you employ a professional cleaner with the right equipment, treating it with a (damn) flamethrower.

I guess that is why the profession of Editor exists. I (desperately) need one, because I am going insane with never-ending attempts to remove the wrong thing and insert the right ones. I have read my books a million times and I still just don't see it, you know?

Funnily enough, when I read somebody else's work, I am great at spotting errors. Spelling mistakes? Sure. Repeats? Yeah. Damn clichés? Si, senor. But my work magically clouds my judgment.

Therefore, please forgive me the initial versions of my books. I know they feel like half-cooked roast eaten from the tin-foil plates. Still nice, but not quite right. Don't worry, though. At least you'll be full at the end of it...

And, with a bit of luck, I am going to go mad just a little bit. (Damn.)