Sometimes I feel like I’ve really botched it up. Nothing I put down on that page is right. The fantastic words I wrote yesterday are total dreck. Especially with longer works.
In a short story, there’s no time to go wrong. But in a novella-length piece, when I start considering in subplots and side stories (not very many, mind you, just one, maybe two), it’s like the creation becomes the end of a nylon rope that’s fraying, and the more you try to twist it back into a tight, solid, interwoven thing, the more it unravels, spinning around and around as every little strand flies apart from the rest.
Sometimes I feel like this and wonder why I bother.
And then I remember the powerful, concise beauty of the written word, and I remember I’m a word-smith, a storyteller. And that’s why I bother.