There’s something about the satisfaction of reading back your own writing and thinking: “Yes. This is good.”
It’s even better when you read the same passage again and something about it still sings to you.
Writers are self-critical by nature. We hate our own work more often than not. We pick faults and underline flaws and compare our first drafts to the published work of our favourite authors. We hate them and we want to be them all at once.
We wish fervently that our writing was powerful enough to inspire.
We want readers to admire our talent, to list us among their favourite authors.
For every lyrical sentence we craft, we’re chasing that high down alleyways full of dull, plodding prose. We’re trying to capture something, but we can’t quite make it happen.
And then suddenly, it comes together. It’s like the universe opens up before you.
We look at something we’ve written and think: “Maybe…one day…I might make it happen.”
And we know. We know we can write.