I’m a not a bad writer.
I’ve got a degree in journalism (some might argue not the best way to learn to become a good writer but whatever — that’s what I did with my early twenties when I wasn’t traipsing around in acid wash jeans and a Frankie Says Relax T-shirt) and I’ve be writing things for a living for almost 20 years.
Sometimes — like whenever I start typing — I need to remind myself of this fact.
It’s strange. No one’s ever said: “Christine, you’re just terrible at this writing business maybe you’d be better off in HR — you’re such a people person.” Not to me directly, anyway. Once (a long time ago but I saved the memo) I was called a rising star. I remember I wrote very complicated technical things at that job (the one where I was a baby star) and how I did that remains a complete mystery to me to this day.
I only like being a writer after I’ve written something. One of my personal joy triggers is re-reading my work and admiring a pleasing sentence or paragraph. Sometimes the whole thing delights me.
It’s only before I start that I seriously suck.