Can we ever look back at ourselves and smile?
Writing is serious business. Those of us who've committed a significant portion of our lives to doing it in novel form will tell you it's no easy ride. While it can be astoundingly fun, it can also be difficult, tear-jerking, vacant, and even humiliating.
Some authors come off as joyless artists chained to their talent and desperate for their heart to be set free in words.
Others seem to flit through it like it's pure pleasure, incomprehensible fun all the time, and about half easy to accomplish writing story after story after story.
Most of us reside somewhere in between extremes – except at certain times during the construction of a story when our characters turn mute and vacuous and refuse to enter into the games. Or when they're so busy cracking jokes when the mood is dour that we're embarrassed to have created them. Or when they're as shallow as the kiddie pool, and we want to exterminate them like hideous bugs.
But, seriously speaking, can we look back at our early creations and smile at some of what we wrote? And I don't mean laugh. I mean look back with a hint of pleasure at our writing chops barely exposing themselves in a few rather brilliant paragraphs here and there that we still truly do like.
To keep going in this rather uncooperative venture, I think we have to be able to enjoy our work. To see the gemstones shining through the rocks. If we can't like our work, who will?
Father, apart from you, we can do nothing. Nothing. Seriously. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

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