Why I, as a writer, hate my writing

Have you ever done something so incredibly stupid that you know damn well you will remember that moment for the rest of your life?

Welcome to every sentence of fiction that I try to write.

People always give the excuse that everyone is his/her own worst critic, which could be the truth, absolutely.  Or it could potentially be the fact that we legitimately, with every fiber of our being, dislike our work.

But that doesn't mean it's the end of the world. In fact it's probably a blessing.

Writers, artists in general, myself really. I strive to make the best out of 26 little letters, to rearrange them in a million different possible ways to try to come up with something that I, and hopefully other people, will enjoy. We aim to please ourselves, because writing for other people and attempting to please them first will, in the end, make you to hate your life.

Take this blog for instance. As I type it, I can't believe I'm about to publish it on the internet for other people to read. But does anyone actually read this fucking thing? No. Why am I publishing it? Why am I even bothering to write it? Simply because of the fact that I need something to put down my thoughts, to put down one-liners and clever quotes and places and descriptions and opinions.

I need somewhere to please myself.

Now God damn it get your mind out of the gutter.

I write for myself is all I'm trying to say. I write because I really don't have another option.

I over think, I day dream, I make things up. I can only keep so much in that in my head before I start to forget and things start to fade.

I write for myself.

With that in mind, I'm free to criticize myself.

When you imagine something that first time it's just so perfect, so right. But when you go to put it into words something doesn't fit. Something is off, one word is wrong, the names need to be changed or the setting or the speaking or the accents that you imagine in your head as you read. It isn't right.

So you redo it, you rethink it, you start to dilute it in your head, trying to get it to the way that you thought of it way back when. And you know, somewhere, that you imagined it once. You should be able to do it again. But somehow nothing will take you back to that first time. No matter how hard you try.

People, the people that weren't there when you first got an idea, will tell you that it's fine. They'll tell you that it's great, that you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. But you know, somewhere, that you can be better.

Yet no matter how hard you try, it doesn't seem like you can.

Welcome to the vicious cycle.