There are days where I wish I could return the ignorant bliss of years before when I did not critique everything that was put under my nose to read. I want to go back to the times when I could just look at something, understand where the story was trying to go and be okay with the fact that it got there in any fashion possible. Unfortunately, those days have been over for a very long time.And I am stuck with the continuous critic that is perched in mind, ever ready to analyze every written thing.
I can almost pinpoint the time this started exactly. I read something a friend wrote back in the early days of me being a teenager and asked her "so what is the point of all of this? This seems like several pages of nothing." and from then on I was suddenly aware of the inner editor inside of my mind that picked away at every single line of story, poetry, prose, and plot that was set before me. Those things that were still whole after my nit picking were good and those that lied in ruin at my feet were trash and the writer should start over. Or depending how bad, just quit while they were ahead.
I found things that were excellent. Things that when you read them or heard them being recited, just made chills run through you and left goosebumps on your arms. I remember listening to a young woman at poetry slam and the way she formed that fluid collage of vernacular made me want to do the same. To find a way to phrase something so simply and yet with such power; I was envious of that.I wanted to make that ability my own. Word choice, turn of phrase, point of view, all of these things I pay so much attention to because I want to make the reader feel what I am writing.It is not enough for them to simply read it.
But because of this, I pick apart everything and when something just doesn't make the mark, I come away a little...well disappointed and dismissive. I've seen better, I've heard better, I've read better, and for some reason I can't just smile and say "Good job.".Part of me feels wrong of being so hard on someone else's writing. They are putting their thoughts and feelings into words and I should have a bit more leniency. However, I just can't seem to give it. I can only congratulate the person for penning something and then head on my way. "Congrats for making the effort. You can only go up from here.Write more, get better, come back to me when you have improved."
Why is this my gift? Because nothing makes me happier than when I put down something that is wonderfully written. After I have put in the time to make myself better, I finally see something that proves that I have taken a step forward. And I can't do that without picking apart everything and analyzing what made it good and what made it bad.It is what I have to do, because I can't settle for mediocrity.
I feel bad for those who are looking for accolades on their work, because very seldom will they ever be handed out from me. I am not easily wowed at this point in my life. But I know what it feels like to be on the other end of that equation, putting your effort into something only to have it not be well received. It is why I hate that my brain operates in such a manner. I know that people want a pat on the back and a gold star. But I am just not that person. Create something great and I will sing your praises from now until forever. Push mediocrity at me and I can only nod and say "Oh look, you wrote something. How nice."
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