I read one of my own stories the other day. I was editing the Read Me page and saw a link to a Christmas story I didn’t remember writing. So I read it.
At first, there was cringing. I know it was a fast, unedited write, but there were problems that made me want to smack myself. At the end, however, I giggled. Not because of awfulness, but because I liked the twist.
It feels self-obsessed to enjoy your own writing, but that giggle gave me more pleasure than I can say. The reason I write is that I love reading: I want to create stories for others like the ones that transport and fascinate me. For a split second, I transported (or at least entertained) myself. That’s very reassuring. If I can’t stand my output, why would anyone else? Next year, I hope the writer in me write more messages to the reader in me, reminding her of what it’s all about.
Merry Christmas! I hope there are lots of books beneath your tree.