Self Criticism

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.

This is perhaps the burden of the artist.  The one who creates a work knows its flaws best.  I’ve done some woodworking in my time, and pieces that others complement show up in my eyes as a sum of their mistakes.  I know the irregular joins and corners not exactly square.  Nobody needs to tell me.

As an altar boy I once carried the crucifix into the chapel.  Misjudging the height of the door, I rammed Christ into the jamb.  The priest harshly whispered, “Don’t bang the crucifix!”  As if I hadn’t noticed.  As if I didn’t feel the sneering eyes of the entire altar party on me.  I was at the very head of the procession.  Everybody saw.

So it is with rejected pieces of writing.  I send in polished, thoughtful pieces.  Thoroughly critiqued ahead of time.  “Thank you, but no,” the editors say.  They forgot to mention I shouldn’t bang the crucifix as well.