March 31, 2004 @ 8:14 pm

When it comes to writing, practice doesn’t make perfect, mostly because there is no such thing as perfect writing. Which isn’t to say we should revel in the mistakes of popular novelists (like Defoe’s flub in Robinson Crusoe, where Crusoe strips naked and swims out to the sinking boat that has marooned him, and proceeds to fill his pockets with goodies), nor should we extol them or even excuse them.
Lately I’ve felt my writing to be very much like an old-fashioned steam locomotive coming to an equally old-fashioned track-switch, the kind that causes the entire train to hitch as if in an apoplectic fit. By which I mean to say that my writing style is changing (as I suppose it will always be, as long as I keep doing it), and while it is nowhere near perfect, I have been able to detect a noticeable turn for the better. And believe me, this is not the Mighty Ego talking. My self-deprecation knows no bounds (if only to steal the thunder of the dogs who take pleasure in ranking me out); I say this only because I have been toiling for so long without any appreciable payback for my efforts. This doesn’t mean I expect any anytime soon, or that writing stories is not its own reward, because it is. The Greek chorus can continue its catcalls (and I know of a couple who visit this website to rubberneck), but it matters not. After all, if it was easy, everyone would be doing it and the achievement of publication would mean little, if anything at all.
Besides, I think if you’re truly gung-ho about writing, your head is probably down on the desk so often you can’t even see the leers cast your way, and the vituperations of the naysayers fall into so much background noise.
Ian


