Leviathan

It is the fear of every writer, no matter how experienced or self assured (though usually it is the inexperienced and, while maybe skilled, still just-budding authors), that their upcoming book is, put simply, the worst thing a human being has ever come to fathom. Ever.

And if you are a beginning author, like yours truly, then you most likely struggle to come to terms with – or in some regard become used to – the nigh ever-present self-guessing that goes into putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). I am not a published author; hell, I'm not a good one, but I am somebody with opinions, and this is the internet: I'm going to share them.

To begin the matter: your book is not horrible. Nowhere close. But it isn't exactly a masterpiece either – despite what the 3:00am euphoria might tell you. In all likelihood, you have written, or you are writing, a decent book, or an okay one. It's why I wouldn't recommend starting out with something so monumental as a novel: you'll hate it by the end. Because we, as people and authors, are forever changing, and especially when we are developing a new skill. Even more so when that skill is one so deep and personal as writing often is. Just months ago I wrote stories and essays that, while still admittedly good, barely hold a candle to what I'm capable of now – even if some particular progress may be more subtle, I certainly see it. It certainly haunts ME.

Over time, as I've grown in my ability, I've become more comfortable with my style, with how I write prose and wrought stories; with how I wrench ideas from the deepest catacombs and crevices of my mind. I've dusted off old vocabulary and expanded my library; I've found a love of reading once thought lost in the back end of the closet, cobwebbed and forgotten; and still I weep when I read Dickens. Or, really, any good author. Because, in my mind, I'll never be like them: not just in sales, or in petty things like that, but in greatness, in likeness or nobility; really, in skill. I want to be great – every author does, even if they don't admit it so freely. Nobody loves to consider themselves inferior to another, and yet how could one look at a great work and say, “Yes, I've accomplished this!”

It would be textbook narcissism.

So how do I stave off this loathing of my own works? How do I persevere amidst a sea of millions, all of which are pushing themselves vainly to the top? How do I rationalize that I am unique, and capable, and not a talentless dolt drowning in the water?

Hah. You're funny. “Rationalization.”

As cliche as it may seem and as foolishly simple as it is, yet secretly (outrageously) difficult: accepting yourself is key. Looking at your writing and taking pride in it, unabashed, and saying, “Well, I couldn't accomplish that,” whilst pointing at A Space Odyssey or what have you, “But I quite like that I made this!” Yes, what you write will be nowhere near perfect – but that is a touch of the glory, isn't it? That you might create something even though you and it are imperfect, a spit in the face to entropy and perfectionist standards alike. Really, it is the acceptance and pride in what I create now in hopes of being great one day, or some semblance of it, that drives me. It is looking at my work, as horrid as I believe it may be, and realizing its inherent worth as something created: a stepping stone of my life; a frozen stream of thoughts.

And it isn't like I don't enjoy the process, either: have fun with what you're doing! If you don't like it, scrap it! Otherwise you, and any readers you might have, will be entirely disinterested in whatever it is you're writing. Creation is for enjoyment, whether that be the slight respite of putting to ink one's feelings or the unbridled joy of a manic mind burning like a star. Without fun, without joy or the simple catharsis of creation, the act means nothing. Without emotion, and without purpose to it, it means nothing. I enjoy writing, deeply, and if you do too, you'll keep on even as the doubt creeps in; enjoying what you create is ninety-percent of why you should create it. The other ten should be proving a point, or bringing a problem to attention, or, frankly, putting food on the table (if your gig can bring you that much).

Best of luck, fellow authors and writers and artists; be creative, be brazen, be innovative and novel and petty if you must.

J.T. Schay