Welcome to the last long weekend of the summer, a day traditionally spent at picnics, fairs or some other sunny outdoor activity filled with bustle of crowds, the smell of popcorn and the joyous laughter of tots.
I am spending a greater part of the day hunched over my laptop editing and rewriting my most recent short story and let's just say this...it's not going well. I'm now at the point of thinking 'why did you think you could write?' and dragging up every self-doubt that's ever crossed my mind in the middle of the night.
Why is it that writers (or me at any rate) are so quick to criticize themselves but so slow to praise? If I'm pleased with my efforts - if I've written something I find funny or I like a particular phrase - I quickly say to myself 'Okay fine... move on'. But I will linger over criticism like it's a fine chocolate souffle. It always appears to me that once I fix one aspect five others cry for my attention. Can't the characters be more colourful? Are they too colourful? Are they much of a muchness? Does the plot move too quickly? Too slowly? Or is it just so unspeakably dull that no one would ever get past page two?
You see my dilemma...
What floors me is that I put myself into this position on purpose. No one put a gun to my head and said 'Be A Writer'. I must need my head examined.