I hate my writing
I hate my writing. That’s the premise of this essay. Despite having learned, explored, understood, and experimented extensively with writing, and even though I’ve received positive feedback on some essays, I cannot bear to read my own work. I’ve tried reasoning with myself, but it’s been futile. I’m too afraid of the mediocrity that I see reflected in my writing, even if others can’t spot it.
The worst part of this situation is that I understand the psychological reasons behind it. I’ve read, and continue to read, great essays—from classical works and contemporary novels to modern-day blogs. On one hand, I’m inspired because I have a clear sense of what good writing looks like. On the other hand, I get anxious because I haven’t written anything of that magnitude.
I wish I were merely comparing my writing to the great essays I read. If that were the case, I could give myself a pep talk about why comparing is a bad idea. But I’m not comparing—I can see the mediocrity in my writing. And here’s the paradox: I can only cure the mediocrity in my writing by continuing to write. The path to great essays is paved with writing the worst ones. I’ve written about this before.
When I compare my recent writing to my older essays, I sense a more mature writer in myself now. But if I read my last few essays, I would consider abandoning this blog. Writing is the most natural thing I’ve ever done. I started writing because I fell in love with telling stories and creating imaginary characters. Yet, after reading some of the greats in the field, I find myself hating my stories all over again.
This incessant dislike for my own work has left me dissatisfied with what I produce. So, I’m always searching for ways to improve my craft. I’ve been doing this for some time now—hating and trying to improve. I often wonder: what if I one day arrive at my presumed destination? What will happen to my craft then? Is the goal to become the best in the world? Or is it to become the most unique writer? I cannot win this game. And yet, that’s exactly how I can keep getting better at the craft.
If I didn’t dislike my craft, I wouldn’t bother learning new tricks. I wouldn’t devour great work with the same fervor. If I stopped consuming great writing, what would happen to my own? I’m at a point where my hatred is my fuel to improve, but it won’t satisfy me because I will always find something greater than before.
This endless cycle is why most creators are never happy with their own work.