I sometimes wonder if there’s a bit of a masochistic streak involved with being a writer.
In the way that it’s raw, opening yourself up and exposing what lies beneath to everyone you’ve ever met or people you never will. They’ll either love what they see and praise you, or they’ll hate it, and criticize you. The anxiety of waiting to find out which you’ll be faced with is near crippling on its own. You’ve poured more than your heart into your work — you’ve put every ounce of the person you are into the worlds you create. Any opinion of your work might as well be an opinion of yourself.
And yet somehow the suffering is satisfying. You gain something from it. There’s never wasted writing, regardless of how it’s received.