I was always told I was a good writer.

Not great, not fantastic. Good.

When I was 11 years old and wrote a short story based on my favorite video game?

It was good.

When I was a teenager and slapped together a “novel” with an audience of one single-mom?

It was good.

I’m not sure where that didn’t become enough, but somewhere in college – while I was studying to fucking write – I just up and quit. No reasons beyond ego, fear and stupidity. At least I thought that was the case.

As I’ve written more and have actually found a niche, I’ve found something common among writers; a need for validation. We all have egos, and we want them stroked. Pretty simple stuff. At the same time, there’s really not much accomplished when your significant other reads a piece you put together and tells you, “This is good.”

That isn’t good enough.

Neither is “fantastic”, “great”, or “excellent”. No, I’ve found I want something else. I want to hear four simple words: “I liked your story.”

My story, put out there to be read by anyone of their own free will.

It speaks volumes, fucking encyclopedias even, and not because this is a judgement of quality – fuck that – the point is that someone read my writing. THAT is what I’m hungry for. THAT is what I’ll break my ass revision after revision for. The kicker? It’s happening. Sure, in trickles – in a slow, steady crawl – but it’s happening.

Anyway, just some random thoughts for the night.

Back to whisky and writing.

Be easy,

Angel