As I went through the story my editors marked up for me earlier today, I found myself having a hard time enjoying my own work. No, that’s not true – I actually enjoyed it quite a lot, which either means it’s good, or I’m a giant egomaniac.
Knowing me, it’s probably both. Or just the second one. That one’s definitely included.
I think the difference is in how I enjoy it, which is in spurts. I can’t just sit down and read, because I see mistakes, and I am compelled to fix them. This isn’t a problem with other’s writing – if John Scalzi (a good author, by the way – I just finished his book Redshirts, and I’m about to start another) makes a mistake, I inwardly shrug and move on. It’s not my job to correct him. With my own work, though? No one else is going to.
The exception comes when I publish. When I release a post on RandomC or here, I’ll let myself to fix a typo or two, but past that I leave it as is, flaws and all. Only then can I go back and enjoy it as you might. I may wince at the mistakes more than most, but they don’t slow me down. I can sit down, and read.
I guess I ought to get back to work so I can publish that book of mine, eh?
What do you know, this blog is helping with my motivation already!