I’m nervous about writing things again.
Without school, with writing my main priority instead of a distraction, it’s become important that what I write be good, and thus, everything is terrible.
It’s not, really. I’ve felt like this before, and what I see when I read it again is never as bad as I thought it was. Sometimes (often) it’s better than the stuff I do when I’m trying (too hard) to be brilliant.
But right now all I can think is, does this read like modern YA? I’m writing for that age group, but I don’t want to write Chelsea Farthing is part of a secret society and falls in love with a dick who is missing and she has to use her superpowers to find him and during the process she meets this other boy who’s nice but he’s boring and not mean to her and that’s bad somehow, and the quest is all about boys and not at all about saving the world, even if it says it is.
I read the jackets of books that look cool, and I end up putting them all down because, at the end of the day, they’re all dark, piercing eyes and how can I choose between my best friend and this enigmatic
dickface dude who hangs around all the time? and oh yeah, superpowers and stuff, but whatever BOYS gimme.
And I’m sometimes afraid, am I writing this too? I don’t want to add to that tripe. But sometimes, I write really, really bad stuff by accident.
Might as well get it out of my system.