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There was a time when I'd share my writing with my friends. Where their input meant more than anyone else's. Not because they would lavish me with praises, but because they are good and honest people. People who I trusted as a gauge to see how good or bad my work was. People I knew to be smart and competent and worthy of my respect.
Now it seems I rely more and more on others... writing groups, on-line critiques. Full of people who I don't know, or at least, don't know well. That's not to say that they aren't smart and competent and worthy of respect. They just don't carry the same satisfaction as knowing that I've pleased a friend or that I managed to meet their level of expectation.
Foolish in a way, too. Perhaps it's a sign of moving on in my writing. I wonder if the melancholy feeling is from selfishness of wanting to take up that much of my friends time or just a natural progression in who reads my stories in order to improve my writing.
I do know that it's hard to write these days. I need to get a piece written today in order to mail off for my writing group, and I just don't care.
It's probably the weather. It could be I'm coming down with a cold. Maybe I'm just not the writer I've always wanted to be. Perhaps it's just because it doesn't really matter. Or it could be that all the other unknowns in my life right now, this is the one that I can't deal with.
Whatever. It stinks.
ETA: This isn't a plea for all the people on my flist to read my stuff. I haven't been posting all the things that I've written, so it's not like you could be reading everything.
Now it seems I rely more and more on others... writing groups, on-line critiques. Full of people who I don't know, or at least, don't know well. That's not to say that they aren't smart and competent and worthy of respect. They just don't carry the same satisfaction as knowing that I've pleased a friend or that I managed to meet their level of expectation.
Foolish in a way, too. Perhaps it's a sign of moving on in my writing. I wonder if the melancholy feeling is from selfishness of wanting to take up that much of my friends time or just a natural progression in who reads my stories in order to improve my writing.
I do know that it's hard to write these days. I need to get a piece written today in order to mail off for my writing group, and I just don't care.
It's probably the weather. It could be I'm coming down with a cold. Maybe I'm just not the writer I've always wanted to be. Perhaps it's just because it doesn't really matter. Or it could be that all the other unknowns in my life right now, this is the one that I can't deal with.
Whatever. It stinks.
ETA: This isn't a plea for all the people on my flist to read my stuff. I haven't been posting all the things that I've written, so it's not like you could be reading everything.
