I have the bad habit of rereading my own writing. Not for any useful purpose, but just because I like to.
When I read something I’ve written I have one of two reactions.
What’s interesting is that my reaction changes from one reading to the next. Everything I have ever written was both pure genius…and shite.
I discovered this duality early on, and I have come to understand that both are true and neither is true. Or the truth is unknowable.
This is sad, of course. I would prefer to think my work is brilliant all the time. (Maybe it is.) But it is also liberating. If I can’t know whether my work is good or bad, then I can’t worry about it. (Although I do worry about it.) All I can do is keep writing. Which I do.