My relationship with my own writing is pretty tempestuous.
Sometimes we’re in love. Sometimes it’s easy to make the words flow and I know I’m doing good work and I get almost drunk on my ability to create whole worlds out of language. I start to dream up grand plans for the day when I’m famous and I can walk into a bookstore and see my own name on a shelf. My work will be so well-received that Hollywood will buy the rights. Oh, it will be glorious. I’ll be witty and sarcastic on writing panels at cons, building a fan base of nerds like me with an equally dark sense of humor. My opinion will matter. People will love me for being so eccentric. I’ll stop wondering whether my parents secretly feel like I was a superfluous addition to the family.
Then there’s the rest of the time. Today, right now. When I feel like the writing is so difficult that it can’t be anything but a chore to read. That no one could possibly have any interest in the stories I have to tell, the things I have to say. Because I’m just that tedious.
Usually, when this mood strikes, I stop writing for a few months and seriously ask myself whether I’ll ever bother again. All emowangst style. Today, however, the universe stood up and said no. The universe instead showered my writing with praise from multiple sources on a previously unrealized scale. The universe said, “Hey. Alyssa. Get over yourself and get back to telling stories. You’re good at it.”
Thanks, universe. I needed that.