Interesting phenomena last night. I was editing my WIP and was generally pleased with what I had written. Got tired. Went to bed.
Woke up, reread the page, and thought, "This is the worst, unreadable dreck. What am I doing?"
As a sane person, I realize that my writing is not really quantifiable in terms of quality--it's strings of words to create meaning and I either get that meaning across to other people or I don't. My strength of the craft is my grasp on what gets the closest-to-exact version of my idea across to the largest number of people. Which means being aware of words, their meanings, syntax, white space, and all sorts of other things.
Likewise, I understand intellectually that the quality of my ideas is neither good nor bad. I am either telling a story people want to read or I am not, and one interpretation of quality is that I am telling a story that lots of people want to read.
So why can't I look at my writing and see anything but absolute shite?
Seriously considering Prozac.
Woke up, reread the page, and thought, "This is the worst, unreadable dreck. What am I doing?"
As a sane person, I realize that my writing is not really quantifiable in terms of quality--it's strings of words to create meaning and I either get that meaning across to other people or I don't. My strength of the craft is my grasp on what gets the closest-to-exact version of my idea across to the largest number of people. Which means being aware of words, their meanings, syntax, white space, and all sorts of other things.
Likewise, I understand intellectually that the quality of my ideas is neither good nor bad. I am either telling a story people want to read or I am not, and one interpretation of quality is that I am telling a story that lots of people want to read.
So why can't I look at my writing and see anything but absolute shite?
Seriously considering Prozac.