I am a writer. That is a fact. Okay, I haven’t been able to make a living out of it as yet. Nor, if I look at my stats on here, have I made a huge impact in the blogging stratosphere. Nevertheless, I write and I am, by that rudimentary definition, a writer.
Us writers are a strange breed of people. It takes a certain degree of arrogance to think anyone is going to be remotely interested in what we have to say. And yet, constantly
fighting (heck, let’s throw a hefty word in as I’ve always wanted to use the strike-through button) in juxtaposition to this is the self-awareness of that arrogance. This inevitably leads us to huge swathes of self doubt and inadequacy. We swing wildly between thinking we are working on the greatest masterpiece ever written, to deleting it all in a flurry of frustration (Even now I am looking back on that last passage and wondering if the juxtaposition was way too much!)
I have a friend from university who edits a fansite for a premiership football team. He has had articles published on the daily mail online. Football is an emotive subject and stirs up a lot of passion and opposing views depending on which team you follow. However, he once told me that it doesn’t bother him if someone tells him his analysis of the game is completely up the creek, as soon as they start to question his grammar, his heart sinks. This is the mark of a writer. He isn’t really concerned on how his readers view his take on the beautiful game as he knows that is subjective, but to question his writing ability, that’s a different matter entirely.