There’s something awesome yet painful about writing, be it a novel, short story, poem or blog. We writer’s can pick up various disguises as we write. Sometimes, we write through characters. Other times, through a narrator. Or even through a way of bringing a point across, like academic writing.
That’s the great part, in case you’re wondering.
The less than great part is this. To write any fiction (and I suspect non-fiction, but someone with more experience will have to corroborate) that’s worth reading, we need to tap into our souls.
And then, we bleed everything we find onto a page.
Sort of creepy, if you think about it.
But if you want to write a novel, you can’t escape it. See, you know how you felt when you were overjoyed. So you use those emotions for the day two of your characters marry. But books aren’t all about happy days. There’s fear. There’s evil. There’s rage.
And if you want any of the above in your book, you’re going to have to dig deep inside yourself in order to write it.
Which is why criticism on our writing hurts like a bitch. No matter how good or bad your writing, it’s part of the depths of your soul. Letting someone read it is like opening your rib-cage.
Anyone who reads the story can take a stab at your heart.
One would think that the easy solution would be to keep a book to yourself. Good thinking, except for a minor problem. See… writers are… well…
And even if we know there’s the risk that people might hate the story we’ve written, we want to share the fruits of our labors.
Which means that stabs to our hearts are part of the business.
Who else feels terrified when letting a CP read your book?