When I was a lot greener, I'll admit to believing the good critiques. If I got bad ones, I could easily talk myself out of them or figure out an easy band-aid edit. But I'm not sure that's such a bad thing—I had to believe the good crits or I'd have given up before I even started.
Now that I've been around the block a few times, I'm more apt to believe the worst opinion out there. I've learned the hard way that those crits make my book better even though they hurt like crazy. I'm grateful for them. Mostly. Definitely not immediately grateful, but yeah. Overall grateful.
The only problem now is that I have a hard time believing someone when they say they like my work. I always think, "Sure you do...you're just trying to be nice. There's got to be some kind of catch—some huge problem they're not telling me about."
It's a bit sad, isn't it? It seems like in every aspect of life, we are conditioned to accept the negative opinions and to suspect the positive ones. That one person who told me I'm ugly. That one guy who hates me because I was born. That one teacher who said I wasn't a very good writer. Why is it so easy for me to believe them, and so hard for me to believe all the people who love me and like what I do?
I don't know. I really don't. It's like the logic works in my head—but it doesn't feel like that. It feels like I suck. Like right now? I'm soooo not in love with my WIP. And it's not even that I hate it, it's just...nothing. Blah. A big puddle of mud. It feels like the whole thing is trash, even if in my head I know it's not.
But when I get in these moods, I've learned it's very important to trust the people who say my writing is worth something. I can't see it right now, but that doesn't make it untrue. It only means I can't see it, and so I will trust my dearest guides to lead the way.