The other day I was editing and rewriting some stuff I’d written about a year ago. I realized something very important.
If I stumbled on my books at random, I would really enjoy them.
I’m not seeing I’m a great writer. Just implying it. But, seriously, so much of editing is just seeking out the bad and altering to fit, that sometimes it is just nice to enjoy your own work.
Of course, that was followed almost immediately by the small voices telling me that I’m writing for an audience of one and I’ll never attract an audience. Also, does it matter if I like it if I never manage to get that second book published, let alone the third.
But it was still nice have it those few seconds of enjoyment.
Deadly Troubadour 