I confess, I'm a doubter, a worrier, and a fretter. I've spent my life trying to internalize my father's advice: "If you worry and it doesn't happen, you worried for nothing. If you worry and it happens, you didn't change anything by worrying."
I'm better now, being older and having lived through enough stuff that I realize Dad was right. Still, when my writing isn't in front of me I find myself fretting over its inadequacies. "There isn't enough character development for Ms. A. I should give more information on her background, her mannerisms, her hair color." I go back to the MS, add a sentence here and there, and then discover that I've already said that, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but quite clearly. I have to take out what I just added. I'm second guessing myself. The Ghost of Inadequacy whispers doubts in my ear, and I believe him.
I suppose all have something similar, maybe even much worse, else why the sad endings of such geniuses as Plath, Hemingway, Bierce, and London? I'm hardly suicidal about it. I just wish that for the most part I'd trust that I've written down what was in my head and stop listening to the Ghost Reader's bad advice. I'm no Sylvia Plath, but I do know enough to tell the reader what color Ms. A's hair is.
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