Last night I rummaged through my writing folder on my desktop and went over some unfinished stories, some of which I hadn't looked at in nearly a year, and discovered something pretty cool: I liked it. Well, most of it. Just about everything I read needed work, or needed me to finish the first draft; but I saw potential. It really gives me hope that maybe I know what I'm doing and perhaps have a little talent.
OK, confession time, I do believe I have some talent. Well, probably more than I admit in public. Deep down inside I have an arrogant prick who thinks he's hot shit when it comes to writing. I think most writers do, or at least they should. If writers didn't have that inner egoist I don't think they'd continue. As modest as I am (people have told me that I cannot take a compliment at all) I do like my stuff, at least most of it. There is still plenty of shit that plops onto my computer screen that even my arrogant side realizes is not that good. But when I write something that I enjoy, then that's it, I'm as smug as can be and probably a bit insufferable until I write my next groaner of a sentence.
So, I'm going back to my little lost orphans of half-finished stories and salvage them. I may even let the world read them. Would you like that?