As soon as I figured out what my writing style really was, I was a bit disappointed. Really, the things I wrote before figuring this whole fiction thing out were far more… “stupidly optimistic” about themselves. Like, of course I can write with this strange gimmick, why not? Now, I’d shudder, knowing such things rarely work well, at least for me. Of course, I still experiment, but not in the broad strokes that I used to. When you don’t know any better, you make some very interesting failures.
So, I did it, right? I developed something of a style, a distinct voice of my own. I should’ve been ecstatic, but I wasn’t. I had taken too much (probably undue) pride in my wild experimentation. It hurt my pride to find that I had “settled down”, as it were. What do writers do when they realized they’ve written themselves into a rut without having written all too much at all? I had, and still have, no clue.
Most writers I’ve met are hopelessly self-critical. Or they were in possession of massive egos. I came to the hypothesis that if you wrote very well, you probably were someone worth avoiding in real life. As such, I have no intention of asking them anything. Still, having friends become so familiar with your style to the point that upon their first reading of a story they say “it’s definitely something you wrote” is deeply, unreasonably maddening. It ruined my long-held illusion that I wrote everything under the sun, that each piece was utterly unique from the rest. So, as a writer, I’m guessing I lean on the “massive ego” side of things.
I’d love to make this the start of some motivational piece, but I can’t. I still don’t know much of anything. As for why I’m posting this here, I guess it’s feasible that someone could relate. Doesn’t do me much good sitting on my hard drive. Anyway, I fully plan on at least spacing out these rambles, hopefully with stories in-between.