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.