I feel this. So very much. (And I like the notion of taking it to a motivational place, frankly.)
I’m pretty sure most writers have been, or will go, there.
You read a book by another author friend of yours. It’s fucking fantastic. You read the beautifully constructed sentences, the tightly woven plot, the unexpected twist. It’s all so clever and lovely and fucking excellent.
And you think, why can’t I write like that? Why didn’t I think of constructing that sentence that way? I’d give my best toenail to have come up with that idea first…
And so on.
And then you see the reviews. That’s fun.
Seven page articles extolling the originality, the excellence, the depth. Star ratings that catapult the author to (niche) demigod status. Fans clamouring for their next book, for their attention, who can’t say enough about this most amazing author, whose back catalogue you simply must read…
And you’re happy for them. Genuinely. You know how that kind of thing can feed an…
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