It's funny how it happens sometimes. I have great, long spells of writing when everything flows, when I am inspired: dialogue whips with the razor sharpness of a duel through my imagination (well, I imagine it's razor sharp), scenes and counter scenes are played out with scintillating brilliance in my mind's eye (this is all theory of course), and then... wham, bam, insecurity sets in. I read what I've written, pick it apart, look at it again, and then again, and end up finding it trite. Even pointless. Gloom descends.
Now I've always known I'm what I call a lightweight when it comes to writing. Shallow and undemanding, that's me. Somebody once referred to my writing as 'storifying'. That put me in my literary box well and truly. It's true, though. In all seriousness, I don't do dark, or even psychological. Reading it is fine, and I enjoy a good solid, meaty, get-my-teeth into it psychological drama, but I can't do it myself. My voice is just not cut out for it. The urge to laugh just cannot be quelled, so it just creeps in, even when I'm trying to be at the very least thoughtful.
So if I know this, why the insecurity? I have no idea. At times like this even this blog seems a bit stale. Maybe I just get bored with myself and want a different me to speak.
I'm having a spell like that at the moment. I just want to go to my book document, select all and press the delete button on my laptop. It would be a bit drastic, that I do realise, and it's probably just as well I have backups of it in so many places it would take too much trouble to find them all. Tempting, though.
I hope the feeling passes soon and I can enjoy my writing self again.
Do any of the other writers out there feel the same way?