Sometimes I felt like my writing was bad. No one would ever want to read it. After all, I was mostly just talking about myself. Projecting the world through my lens. Even I got tired of my own perspective.
Sometimes the notes I'd written for the next chapter were completely meaningless ~ I couldn't believe I'd written them with the intention of jogging my memory because they were nothing to go on. Then I wondered if I had anything good to say. Was it just a waste of paper?
Those thoughts thrived in the painful pocket of time before the writing took place. When I procrastinated with online window shopping or small house chores. Once I opened the word doc and read the first chapter, I was interested. A few chapters in, I was leaning into the screen.
I'd read my book up to where I left off and fell in love with the story, each time like the first. Then I knew that if no one ever liked my writing, it was ok. It was better than good to me. That was the only opinion that mattered.