Have you ever found one of your old, old stories or essays or poems, one of your earliest attempts to be a serious writer? Do you laugh gently to yourself about how bad it was? Me, too. In fact, I’m embarrassed now to realize I actually sent some of those pieces out. Those poor, kind over-worked editors! But so what? Everybody starts somewhere. None of us is born knowing how to be a good writer. We all start off at varying stages of ineptness, then improve. How? I’ve taken classes, attended workshops, shared critiques with fellow writers, both better than I am and on the same level. I’ve compared my attempts to those already in print in markets I aspire to. Though it’s taken years, I’m astounded at how much better I actually am, at least, IMHO. No, that’s not quite true. I know I’m better because I get published now, when in the early days I didn’t. I know I’m better because I can writer faster, often easier. I know I’m better because I occasionally get solicited for content, something that would never have happened in the beginning. I don’t ask for perfection. I can only become a better writer at my own speed, although I have experienced bursts of insight about my own writerly mistakes. I may never achieve amazement inspiring work. All I demand of myself is to keep improving, learning, honing, caring. To be better today, with this manuscript, than I was before.
If I wanted more, I’d get discouraged. If I wanted less, I’d be stuck forever where I started. It’s may not seem like much to ask. But it’s also everything. Better.