Alright, it's time to just say it. Maybe owning up to my current problems, however embarrassing they may be, will help me get over it. Because I've tried just about everything else.
I'm not nearly as strong as I act. My inner editor, the insidious AAC, has commandeered my brain. I can't bring myself to think my writing is more than crap, let alone good. (Michelle calls this Isuckitis...well named.)
Take this sentence: "I couldn't think of anything to say to her."
Translated in my head: "Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap."
I've edited my brains out. Cut 10k from my MS. I look back, and it still isn't there, and then I start to think it's NEVER going to be there. And why am I doing this again? Why do I want this? It's just a silly childhood dream to be published. I don't need all this frustration—this is why I was afraid to try in the first place! This sucks. It's NOT fun anymore. Not even close.
And yet I'm sitting here with my MS pages cradled in my lap, tearing up because I love this story so much and I can't seem to do it justice. I jot down another word change, cross out a sentence, combine a paragraph, write a "better" description...I just keep going...why am I going? Why am I editing when even the changes don't quite make it what it deserves to be? How in the world can I keep putting myself through this?
I am inadequate; it's the truth. Always will be (bear with me here, I have a point). I'm sure every writer has felt that way at one point—probably more than once. My fingers can't type the perfect words to represent the people and worlds in my head. I try so very hard, knowing I'll never quite get there. Oh, I know I'll get better, but that unreachable perfection, those exact words I want, will never grace my pages without a considerable amount of pain, fear, work, and error. And even after blood red pages, it still won't be "perfect."
I could give up...hell, I should give up, shouldn't I? I'm grasping for an unattainable ideal. Because let's face it, even if I work my whole life I will never, ever write the "perfect" book. I will always see a flaw—there will always be a flaw. Crap. I'm human. (Even if I pretend to be a cyborg.)
Then I realize that my writing is just like me: a living, breathing thing that grows everyday. Sometimes I can be beautiful, sweet, kind—near perfect. Other times I'm ugly, rude, hateful. My writing is the same way. I'm a literal work in progress, and my Creator hasn't given up on me. I shouldn't give up on what I've created either. If he can accept my "best effort," then surely I can accept that of my own flawed writing.