Light Bulb!
I had an epiphany recently. I've been thinking a lot about what I read, what I like, and what I write lately. There's a tendency to judge ourselves on what we think we should like. It's on the best seller list, our friends like it, it's erudite, it's popular, it's world changing, etc. When we like the things that others like, we feel worthy. We got it.
But you see, here's the thing. I was looking at some fic the other day that a couple of my friends recommended. These fic were good, and they dealt with TW characters being transgender. Clever and well written, I thought as I read them, "I'd never have come up with this idea and written this fic." That's when it hit me.
This wasn't my story to tell.
I understood in a flash that good and bad didn't even enter into the equation. These stories, while I enjoyed them very much, didn't speak to me the way other stories do, the way my own work does. They weren't mine.
Wow. So, nothing changes really, except I stop beating myself up when I don't get it, and while I may still moan "why can't I write like this?" when reading a lovely, poetic fic, I won't actually let it bother me.
I will continue to tell my stories, the ones that claw at the back of my teeth to get out; the ones that keep me awake at night running plots through my head until I sleep; the ones that need me to tell them, because no one else will. These are my stories.
And while I have much to learn about the telling of them, the stories themselves are good and worthy, deserving of better skills than mine to bring them into the world. But they'll just have to make do with me.
Thank you muse, for giving me stories to tell.
But you see, here's the thing. I was looking at some fic the other day that a couple of my friends recommended. These fic were good, and they dealt with TW characters being transgender. Clever and well written, I thought as I read them, "I'd never have come up with this idea and written this fic." That's when it hit me.
This wasn't my story to tell.
I understood in a flash that good and bad didn't even enter into the equation. These stories, while I enjoyed them very much, didn't speak to me the way other stories do, the way my own work does. They weren't mine.
Wow. So, nothing changes really, except I stop beating myself up when I don't get it, and while I may still moan "why can't I write like this?" when reading a lovely, poetic fic, I won't actually let it bother me.
I will continue to tell my stories, the ones that claw at the back of my teeth to get out; the ones that keep me awake at night running plots through my head until I sleep; the ones that need me to tell them, because no one else will. These are my stories.
And while I have much to learn about the telling of them, the stories themselves are good and worthy, deserving of better skills than mine to bring them into the world. But they'll just have to make do with me.
Thank you muse, for giving me stories to tell.