There has to be a psychological term for what authors suffer from.

All those months that trail into years of writing a novel, re-writing, editing, altering, changing – and finally the finished article, the published bound edition is to hand.

And, unpacking that first box of books, sifting the copies from their layers of protective wrapping paper, should be an ecstatic experience.

But it’s not.

Instead, it’s terrifying.

The next anxiety-inducing moment is when people start to ask for copies. Say they can’t wait to read it. Inform you that our book group is choosing it for their next read.

And the thought of personally flicking through some of the 379 pages that comprise The Odyssey of Lily Page is simply tortuous. I stare at it, terrified to lift the cover and peep inside as if I am expecting the story to have entirely changed its genre and direction since completing it.

Even though it’s been proof read. And proofs have been checked. More than once.

All of this is, of course, crazy. Bizarre.

After all, novelists write to be read. We create characters we can believe in – characters we do believe in – and take them on their various paths, directly or indirectly, towards their fates.

And perhaps that is part of the problem. Because, however cliched and pretentious it sounds, the characters we invent do become ‘real’ to their creators.

When I manage to steel myself to glance at a few pages in the novel, I instantly feel a connection with Lily Page. I can imagine what is going through her mind, what she is thinking about and how she is judging herself. She is alive for me.

The same with other characters in the novel: Aunt Dorothy, Hugh Murray, Stella Fox. Even the late Professor Walter Page who has departed life a few months before the novel even starts.

And perhaps I am simply being protective of my characters.

Which sounds foolish.

They are certainly not intended all to be liked or admired by any means – but I am protective in the sense of wanting readers to be interested in them. Intrigued by them. Or at least inclined not to be bored by them.

It’s a bit like stage fright, this fear that’s currently arresting me.

You’ve rehearsed the play endlessly, learnt the words, developed a close bond and camaraderie with both the play and fellow cast members and tickets have been sold.

An audience! What a terrifying prospect! People are actually going to come and watch and listen!

Which was rather the idea of putting the play on in the first place.

It’s a conundrum of sorts.

There is another perversity at work here too.

Authors tend to be introverted by nature. They are very often happier communing with the characters in their imaginations, comporting with them on a screen, than socializing for real.

Yet all of a sudden that reclusive streak has to be dropped and we are forced to confront potential readers – convince them that they might like to acquire a copy and consider reading the contents.

It’s a difficult transition from shy and retiring writer to loudmouthed publicist for sure.

Anyway, in the 24 hours that copies of The Odyssey of Lily Page have been in my possession, I have made some progress.

I’ve glanced at a few sections. Reminded myself of the ending. Of the beginning. Flinched, inevitably, at a phrase or two I now want to change (utterly normal reaction) and have managed to convince myself that I don’t despise every word. That’s there’s a yarn there for people to read, like or dislike, and that I must not get so possessive over something which is, after all, simply a tissue of fiction.

Easier, as you can imagine, said than done!

And the publicist inside my head that too rarely comes to the fore is reminding me to say that copies of The Odyssey of Lily Page can be bought from all online book stores, in all high street book stores – on order – directly from my publisher, TROUBADOR BOOKS or direct from me. And reviews – simply a short phrase, a swift rating – can transform a novel’s chance of survival – and save the novelist from penury too!

Happy winter weekend – happy reading!