Last night I wrote 619 words of a new story, the first time I’ve written original fiction in a long while. They were kind of meh and I knew they were kind of meh as I wrote, but I got them out in spite of the internal cringing. It doesn’t help that I’m currently reading Blood and Iron by Elizabeth Bear and suffering from an inferiority complex. It’s not fair of me to contrast my first draft with her polished published work. It’s not fair of me to compare my work with that of any other writer, because we all have our own styles and voices.
In this one thing, I need to learn to be kinder to myself.
It’s funny, though. Some stories just beg to be written. They come out strong and exuberant on the page. Others are quieter, but no less confident.
This story? The reason for its inception in written form is “Huh, I’ve kicked this idea around long enough, and there’s nothing in my RSS feed and no new forum posts to read, so maybe perhaps I should start writing it”. A reluctant, self-doubting kind of of beginning. I’m excited about my idea, just not confident in my ability to execute it. It’s the whole “it was better in my head” thing, again.
Perfectionism is my bane. Somebody send me a big stick to beat it off with.