Writing Was Easier When I Sucked

Ah the days of bliss, happily pounding out drek with no responsibility to the readers that did not exist. The resulting stories would be so bad that it would be immediately obvious what was wrong and what must be done to fix it.

Then I started getting better and everything went wrong. Now when I read what I write it's not bad, but it's also not great. There is always something missing, something to add, something to take away, but it's a subtle something lurking unknown in the shadows.

So I try to fix it through trial and error hacking away at characters, plots and scenes, till the whole thing is transformed into something brand new, but equally not so great. Lately all my rewrites seem to take me sideways rather than upwards in quality.

The Guilt of Leisure

Maybe it's the puritan upbringing, but I've come to realize that I feel guilty about spending time writing. I feel like I should be doing something practical and productive like cleaning the back room or repairing the deck or feeding the homeless. 

I know this is just my inner critic trying to devalue my writing. Hey, just the money I save on therapists makes my writing worth it. Still. I can't shake the feeling that I'm not serving the world as I should. 

I think the main problem is that I enjoy writing, so how could it be of any value? In my underlying belief structure things that are fun are not important.  Being important is important. In my school days I was often accused of having my priorities mixed up. Who knew I was listening?

Prep

Just decorated my desk with the dream lizard, Kokopelli, the Skull of the Muse and the inner critic fetish. Now I can write.