Okay, that was harsh. But it’s true. Like it or not, having honest critics who care nothing for your feelings read and give their opinions on your writing is a very, very good thing.
As writers, we deviate from the norm simply by doing what we do. Not many humans have the ability or desire to sit and write much of anything. But then there are those of us who choose to do it. We choose to use words, as a mason uses brick, or a potter raw clay, to craft poetry, or the [hopefully] realistic and interesting dialogue of imaginary people, or even non-fiction essays and instructional literature. We do it without knowing whether or not it will have any effect at all on another person, or the world around us. We do it for the simple love of doing it. Because we can’t NOT do it.
Sounds like a wonderful, organic concept, yeah? While writing for the sake of writing can definitely be incredibly therapeutic, no matter the form, for some of us, there comes a point when the entire experience becomes complicated by the idea of publishing. And this is where too many writers get ahead of themselves (myself included).
I remember the excitement of the first letter of acceptance I received for something I wrote. I was maybe 14 or so, and had sent a short poem I’d written as a school assignment for Earth Day off to the address in one of the tiny ads in the back pages of my “Bop” magazine.
