I’ve been bouncing from one mood to another about my writing these past couple of days. Yesterday I heard someone say ‘what a waste of hours’ about an unpublished writer and the dark feeling came over me – have I just frittered away the best part of a year on something that nobody wants to look at, never mind read? I looked over my first draft again, willing myself to see it the way I did when I was writing it. Nothing.
Earlier today I heard a pro-Brexit (hmm) politician extolling the virtues of our great country and something he said made me stop. He described Britain as being full of creative people. And then I remembered – if you are a true writer, you don’t write for critical acclaim; you write because you love it. If you’re an artist, a composer, a musician, a cook, you do it because you can’t imagine life without it. Whatever you are good at, do it. No matter what the skeptics say. They only criticise because they have nothing better to do.
This morning I tried to imagine a life where I didn’t write every day and it terrified me. We have the freedom in this country to express ourselves, to make new worlds, to inspire and delight. Why let the gag of self-critism ruin that?
I’ll post this blog, even though my nasty head is telling me it’s terrible. And I will keep writing, for better or for worse.
(I do still think we should stay in the EU. I’m not Boris Johnson for goodness’ sake!)