The value of disliking your own work

I’m currently editing Love and Taxi Queues, the second book I wrote during my three months. It’s about damn time. And I find myself hating sections of it. I cringe at the language. The redundant words in sentences and slipshod descriptions. The slow pacing. I ask myself: why did I ever think this was half-decent in the first place? Because once upon a time I'm sure I did. I’m sure when I first wrote some of these lines I cheered myself on for doing so, looked at my work and thought, ahh, now ain’t that a fine piece of prose. 

It’s demoralising.

At the same time, I wonder if I’ll ever improve. If I’m destined for mediocrity and fulfilling my fate as a hack. But then I had a revelation.

The fact that I dislike that which I once thought of as good is a sign of progress. It means I’ve grown far enough that I can recognise what needs fixing, and even sometimes fix it. I couldn’t before. It’s a wonderful piece of evidence that shows that the practice is leading somewhere. Every discordant note I hear is a sign that my ear has improved. It's that phenomena of looking back on the writing you did as a teenager and rolling your eyes. I'm able to do that after only one or two years. That's some fast improvement.

Bring on the suck. What would be awful is looking at my previous work and think, obliviously, that it was gold-plated genius. Especially if others disagree. It would mean I’m stagnating. So now I’m free, free to be disappointed in last year’s writing. And the beauty of editing means I can fix it, can iterate and improve. This has to apply to all sorts of creative fields. It’s good to feel you could have done better. It’s been a year or two of feedback, much of it highly critical. But it occurs to me now that that criticism has helped me see general flaws in my writing, holes in my craft that I can now perceive in pieces of work that never had that feedback in the first place.

So thank you to anyone who reads this and has read my work and taken the time to give me feedback, especially the critical kind. You’ve helped me grow. Instead of wallowing in my own self-pity I can now rejoice when I find a flaw in that which I’ve already written.

Also, I realized I actually missed a chapter of HTWACSN around post

I realize I actually missed a chapter of HTWACNS in the post www.vishnanda.com/blog/donotgolightly so I’ve re-added chapter 5 to the end of that post!

HTWACSN Chapter 8: Bound

I am bound. Both physically and metaphorically, as my fate is now tied to this new interloper’s. With the gag hanging by my throat, drool cools the glistening stubble on my chin, drops of saliva intercepted by the long hairs that have begun to grow on my face. Mistress Pain grabs me by the back of my head and lifts me entirely with one hand. She has extra-natural strength! I wonder at what she is: a vampire, a werewolf, a demon, or something else, something unknown and new. “Lycanthrope,” she hisses, “Where is that Nosferatu accomplice of yours?”

Francesca! Her life is in my hands, perhaps even her freedom. Yet Mistress Pain bound me in the name of the council, thus she represents that ultimate authority among the extra-natural. Would I not give Francesca up eventually under duress? It may even be lawful to do so. But my heartstrings are tuned to her voice, my throat enlivened by her husky breath, I may as well give up one of my limbs, or my own mother. I say, “I have no accomplice. You are deeply mistaken.”

“She’s outside, isn’t she?” Mistress Pain says. In a flash, she secures me to the doorknob and sprints out of the room. I have little time. She has made a grievous error. She has left the ball gag hanging around my throat. My mouth is unplugged. It is time. I let loose a titanic, AWOO! Howling for all I am worth. I think of Diana, Selene, of the man on the moon, of cheese, and I AWOO at the top of my lungs.

My blood begins to quiver. The dark room takes on a ghastly resolution as my eyes grow wolfish, my feet strain in my crocs as claws elongate, I feel the monster inside me, the wolf-voice growing at the back of my head, demanding meat, demanding the hunt, and internally I say good doggy, good doggy, to sooth the hound, AWOO! 

I feel my fingernails warp. My claws extend. I shred the silken rope that binds me to the doorknob.

I tear my arms free just as I hear, through my extra-natural enhanced hearing, the sound of Mistress Pain’s hurried, returning footsteps. I can smell the irritation on her, can deduce she has failed, thank the Gods! 

Yet there is no escape. 

I consider engaging in mortal combat. My gnashing teeth and limbs against her whips and fisticuffs. But what if she carries a silver weapon? An agent of the council surely would. In my hesitation I back towards the wall, next to the window. 

Mistress Pain, clad in shiny black leather, fills my door frame. She cracks her whip, her teeth grit, her eyes wild with anger. “You little bitch,” she says. “You think you can escape from me?” I crouch, ready to pounce, tensing my calves. She says, "I am a representative of the council and I come here to leash you. You meddle in affairs beyond your reckoning. That body is not what it seems. That vampire is not what she seems. I must recover Alain's corpse from her before its too late."

"Why should I trust you!" I decry.

"Because you suspect already, something is not right. The STORY is not right. Use your nose. Just come with me and we can deal with this. We can arrest the nosferatu's fell purpose." She reaches out a hand.

Then I hear her voice, somehow penetrating my mind. Francesca's. She says Bob, she is stalling before they come to take you in. They do not like your kind. They must leave no witnesses. This is a black operation, Bob, I know because there are things I must confess to you. Come to me. I am below.

She is below. I glance behind me. There is no other choice. My arms have elongated. My claws sprouted. The animal within growls for attention. I turn and throw myself towards the window. It caves outwards in a tumultuous crash. Then I am soaring, soaring through the air, limbs flailing, twelve stories up. I feel the air rushing past my fur, I feel my stomach careen into my mouth. I throw my arms out and yes! Purchase! They clack against the bamboo scaffolding of the adjacent tower. Oh, happy day! I drop down, floor by floor, my new extra-natural strength aiding my descent. The city is lit up in all its ambient splendour in my night vision. The colours are clear, the aspect as perceptible as if it were daylight. Thus I can make out Francesca, at the bottom, holding Alain's body in an alleyway. But how was she able to communicate with me telepathically? 

I drop down into the alley. Francesca gazes at me, her face a mask. "You have to eat him now Bob before it is too late. It is time for dinner."

And I am salivating. I have let the beast within without. But the words of the dominatrix slurry my mind. The body is not what it seems. I take Alain's corpse and lay it in the filthy alley. I sniff him, top to bottom. Whilst Francesca questions me. Near his feet, I smell more than socks. I smell a hint of plastic, coming from inside his foot. "Francesca," I say. "We must disrobe Alain. I fear that there is more to this than meets the eye."