I'm far from perfect. In fact, I'm lousy at perfect. But that doesn't keep me from trying. And falling flat on my face.
Why do I expect myself to write any different than I live the rest of my life?
I've read Bird by Bird, where one of my favorite non-suspense novelists, Anne Lamott, gives me permission to have low expectations of my first draft. I love her for trying to help. I've read On Writing where Stephen King does pretty much the same thing.
So what gives?
Maybe there's something else going on . . .
CR: The Best Revenge by Stephen White.
It's all better with friends.