For weeks, I’ve avoided doing my weekly Critters critique. I couldn’t figure out why, other than I’m busy with other stuff. But I finally got to it tonight and as I read the short story I picked to tear apart, reality stepped on my toes, demanding I realize:
No, dear, you will never write that well.
I wrote my critique that wasn’t really a critique and ate some ice cream (I’m lactose intolerant).
I then went to a random WordPress site and there, right there, another great writer. I got up, went to the refrig and ate a huge slice of my husband’s butter-cream, custard layered birthday cake (yeah, I technically can’t have that either).
I went to an agent’s blog I frequent because he always writes something inspiring and helpful, but today he had a guest blog post – wonderfully written. I contemplated going down to the local Ben and Jerry’s shop.
It’s not that I begrudge the fact that there are wonderful writers out there. I love to read a book, short story or article that grabs my attention and leaves me emotionally charged or pondering life’s mysteries. No, the problem is that as I read, I mentally size up my writing skills to whomever I am reading and the plain truth is…I’m not that good.
Well, yeah, you can understand what I’m writing and you might even laugh at something I wrote that was intentionally meant to make you laugh. But, really, on the grand scheme of things? I’m not that good.
To top if off, as I re-read parts of my WIP, it dawns on me that the story is boring. There’s not much going on. Andreas goes from point A to point B. Stuff happens, but not really a lot of stuff and nothing exciting. No huge sword fights. No chase scenes. No gruesome deaths. Not even a good sex scene. It’s all random stuff that doesn’t really make all that much sense.
So, what to do? I’m about half way through my novel effort. I’ve spent about a year on it. Should I abandon it? Just walk away? Save what dignity I have left and burn the thing? (Okay, delete the thing, but burning it sounds like a lot more fun.)
The hell with my bowels, where are my car keys…