I know it is probably the same for everyone who is engrossed in creating something, whether it is a work of fiction, a painting, a melody (hopefully not those creating life). We as humans tend to be our own worse critics.
Yes, I know that people exist who by outward appearances don’t admit that they’ve ever created anything sub-par. However, even those individuals must have that niggling thought in their mind. Am I any good? Is my work any good?
I have recently started approaching my novel again, with the goal of having the first draft completed before 2018 ticks over to 2019. This shouldn’t be that big a “thing” except that I have been alternating between working on, and ignoring this piece of work for over 6 years now. The fact that it has stuck in my mind after these years tells me that it holds some promise and I find myself getting excited when I sit at my laptop and the words start to flow unencumbered.
That is when it happens. That flicker of doubt. Am I wasting my time? Is what I, as a self diagnosed bookworm, thinking is rather decent for a first draft actually a steaming pile of fecal matter? It is said that Shakespeare (who ever he actually was) sent most of his work to the closest trash receptacle.
My fiance, and knight in shining armour, came to my rescue when I was in the midst of another bout of fear and angst.
His suggestion? Remove my head from my arse. Yes, I can always count on him to tell it as it is. Okay, so with my head as removed as I can achieve, I will persevere. After all, Nothing can’t be either good or bad, it is simply nothing. Before I or anyone else can judge something, it has to exist.
Since I was young, I have read books and thought: I can do that. I had an idea of the amount of work that went into writing a story, and have been published in the past, however that was Inkwells- of- days- gone- by. I am older and hopefully wiser now – and can hopefully produce far better work. Now is my time to prove it.
Wish me luck.