The self-critical writer is an odd beast. In fact, I sometimes wonder if I’m not working at cross-purposes with myself in trying to get published. You see, despite all the “no”s I receive from editors, I am my own worst critic. I put a lot of care into my stories—there’s nothing slap-dash there. Yet when I watch movies I often groan at the state of the writing. They’ve made it, and I haven’t. The same is true when I read novels. I’ve read many—most by major publishing houses with “bestseller” splashed all over the cover that left me with a shrug and a yawn. They get multiple book contracts. I get rejection slips. (Or I would if they still sent slips.) They don’t even tell me why. I don’t really need rejection slips to critique my work. I critique the hell out of it. I go over stories time and again, like a rock tumbler, even after they were pretty good to begin with. Such is a writer’s life. I critique, but I don’t critique nearly enough, obviously. Th
Blog of a struggling writer.