I read my own published book for the first time in two years last night and it was a strange experience
I put my debut out in early 2024. I hadn't reread it since launch week, partly because I was tired of it, partly because I was scared of what I'd find. Last night I couldn't sleep and I pulled it off the shelf for some reason I can't really explain.
It's better than I remembered. Not perfect. There are places where I can see myself reaching for a tone I hadn't quite earned yet, and one subplot in the middle that I now think should have been cut entirely. But the prose holds up, the characters still feel like themselves, and there's a chapter near the end that I'd genuinely forgotten writing, which is a strange experience. I read it like a stranger and it moved me.
The weird part is that I've spent the last two years assuming this book was the worst thing I'd ever do. I've been working on book two with the constant low background fear that it would never measure up to my debut, while simultaneously believing my debut wasn't very good. Both of those things can't be true, and it took rereading the book to realize I'd been treating it unfairly.
I think a lot of us are like this. We finish a thing, we put it out, and then we let our worst inner critic write the final review of it. Reading my own book like a reader instead of a writer reminded me why I started doing this, and I needed that more than I knew.