This should not be a shock, but I am not the best writer I know. The truth is I am often not the best writer I know who sits at my desk. And I’m the only person who uses my desk. That’s just the way of it.
Most times I can feel every word, every phrase and idea that didn’t translate right from my brain to the page – and it’s almost all of them. I will sit and struggle and fuss and worry about how bad a writer I am.
Until I’m actually writing. See when I am in the process of laying down words I am the best writer who ever lived. In my head at least. For exactly as long as I’m working. Then it’s back to doubtsville.
And that’s right. That’s the correct way of things, really. When we’re not actively doing the work we can see the seams and we always see them distorted because we’re too close. So we glimpse our flaws in a funhouse mirror that makes it look like macrocephaly run rampant.
Oh, but when we work we must be Gods among people. Otherwise the spice won’t flow correctly and we’ll be left in an adaptation with Patrick Stewart holding a pug.
This, by the way, is why writers tend to drink. Wait no, I mean this is why writers tend to chat to each other endlessly. We know we can say to each other “Oh my god I suck” and it won’t be taken too deeply, any more than the overflow moments when we declare ourselves rulers of the Little People and High Lord of the Wheat. We’ve each been there, and worse, it is our job to be both places back and forth, in an endless cycle.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go tend to the Wheat and Little People a while…