The self-consciousness hump

I’m currently thinking about pitching three different articles at the moment, each quite ridiculous. I’m also polishing a spoken word poem and wondering why I wrote it and how absurdly childish my voice will sound on youtube. I’m also putting off progress on the second novel and vainly hoping an agent will eventually respond to the first. This is not, by the way, a call for sympathy: I’m down with all of the above.

But I was musing earlier about the profound embarrassment of contemplating any creative writing I’ve done, even if it’s stuff I’m very proud of in content and style.

All writing is essentially pretentious unless someone else has asked you to do it (and even then it probably will be). You are presuming other people will take the time, and might actually derive pleasure, from you crystallising your imagination or your half-wrought opinions. Even if people say they like it, you’re between-suspicious-and-convinced that they haven’t read it, and if they did read it, probably didn’t *get you*.

It usually helps to get over this feeling.
Whisky usually helps to get over this feeling.
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