Oldgnome
Dreamer
Quite often, after many false dawns and self-deceptions, I realise that a piece of writing is finished. I tend to have a day of relief and disbelief followed by a weirdly distorting experience that I can describe thus:
I feel as if I had been trapped inside the story (less often a poem) for the whole of its invention, but when the story is finished I feel a bit like Alice and that the story has shrunk and I am now looking down on it. The story then loses all of its appeal for me and when I read it through, some weeks later, it is as if someone else had written it. I never feel any joy after finishing a piece of writing. I never feel like celebrating. I did feel some celebration recently when I realised that I had written a novel, but that is about form and not about the story itself.
It is only when I have started a new project that I lose this contempt for the last piece and eventually I see the previous story as belonging to readers who are not me. Then I let go of that work. In other arts, such as acting, actors bathe in the glory of having done something well. Apparently Johnny Depp never watches his own movies, and so he might be an exception. I wonder, in the case of my writing whether it is the endless editing that pummels me until I have no hope left of the story ever finishing. When it does finish, maybe I am too exhausted to care.
I feel as if I had been trapped inside the story (less often a poem) for the whole of its invention, but when the story is finished I feel a bit like Alice and that the story has shrunk and I am now looking down on it. The story then loses all of its appeal for me and when I read it through, some weeks later, it is as if someone else had written it. I never feel any joy after finishing a piece of writing. I never feel like celebrating. I did feel some celebration recently when I realised that I had written a novel, but that is about form and not about the story itself.
It is only when I have started a new project that I lose this contempt for the last piece and eventually I see the previous story as belonging to readers who are not me. Then I let go of that work. In other arts, such as acting, actors bathe in the glory of having done something well. Apparently Johnny Depp never watches his own movies, and so he might be an exception. I wonder, in the case of my writing whether it is the endless editing that pummels me until I have no hope left of the story ever finishing. When it does finish, maybe I am too exhausted to care.
Auror
Sage
Myth Weaver