Let’s start out by saying I’ve never been a picky writer. At all. I write whatever idea pops into my head, and I can take that snippet pretty far without thinking too hard about it. I love writing, no matter what I’m writing, whether the story is stupid or brilliant or easy or hard or happy or sad. I could go on with adjectives, but I’ll spare you that.
Lately, however, that hasn’t been the case. I’ve been discarding ideas left and right without even bringing them to the drawing board.
I’ve also noticed that I’ve been harder than ever on myself and my writing, even if the writing is something as simple as a poetry review for class. Sometimes I think my mind is going to explode from the effort of trying to make a single sentence just right.
With the help of hindsight, I’ve come to realize this all started with the end of Not Another Stupid Romance.
I tend to think my latest book is the best one, but NASR is the cream of my novel crop. It and It Was Never About That are the two most recent contemporaries that I’ve written, and the process for both of them was much, much different than all of my other books.
Both started out with the intention of being light-hearted comedies, and both became something far more serious and dealt with possibly the single most important issue I’ve ever written about: family.
Hands down, these are my two favorite books that I’ve ever written. They give me all these feels – not always good feels, but really strong, genuine feels.
And ever since finishing NASR, none of my ideas are really gripping me. If it doesn’t sound too arrogant, I’ll dare to say that I think I’ve written something good, and now I don’t want to write anything that’s any less genuine.
It’s odd, really odd, for me to be so critical of my writing. I’ve always had an optimistic I can make it better later attitude, and I never worried during first drafts. I just wrote because it was fun. And now… LE GASP… I may be developing standards.
It’s a scary thought.