Sweet Things Dying - After Words, Part IV

Sweet Things Writing

            I have, since I first picked up a crayon, always been a writer. In the forty odd years since, I’ve written many and varied a thing, all, no doubt, of an equally many and varied quality. But one thing I’ve never been good at is sharing what I’ve written so that others, beyond a few close friends and family, could read it and express their thoughts for better or worse. What, one could reasonably ask, is the point of writing if all those words are never read? A favourite excuse of writers, even successful ones who very much share their work, is that you write for yourself first and foremost. There is a lot of truth to this, for there is no compelling reason to put pen to paper if the writer doesn’t get immense satisfaction from doing so. Still, it always seems like such a shame for any creative mind to hide or dispose of their creation out of shame or any such related motive.

Music played but never heard, art painted but never seen, and books written but never read, all due to their creator’s desire to bury it out of some pointless need to save face is rather silly, especially if the creator is new to their endeavour and has no reputation to worry about anyway. After all, you have no bar by which to gauge how your work will be perceived by others even if you suspect it will be a low bar. The best thing to do is to let others give you a sense of the quality of your work by sharing their criticisms afterward. And if the resulting vibe is rather negative, the best thing is – especially if you’re a new writer – an early failure can be dismissed as an admirable attempt, a part of your learning curve. Even if it’s drudged up again following later successes, no one will care – and someone will find a way to appreciate it. It will be acknowledged that while your first book was not so great you clearly learned from the experience and your later efforts only got better for it. Early failures become the noble forebears of later successes.

            That said, I’ve written a lot over the years, including full-length novels, that I’ve happily dumped aside and moved past. I think most creative types do so even if it is somewhat self-defeating. But the question is, when does one stem this tide of self-dismissal and realise it gets you nowhere if you just keep doing it?