So it’s always a strange thing, thinking about your own work. Is it any good? Does it matter? What if no one likes it? It’s like being back in school again, wondering who your friends really are.
And I can never pick it. That’s been confirmed to me by this latest round of NYC Midnight’s Flash Fiction Challenge.
Case in point: heat one, my comedy (read it), I struggled with. I’ve documented that here. I struggled, I started three different pieces, and the ultimate hander-inner I was not pleased with. It was just sent in to send something in before deadline… And I scored 4th in my group.
And then: heat two, the open genre piece set in a playground (read it), I was dead proud of that (no pun intended, dear characters). Sure, it was a little cliched, but I thought I captured a sense of mood and menace really bloody well if I do say so myself. And I scored 6th in my group – still getting me through to round 2, no less – this one actually scored less points than the one I didn’t like. What gives?
I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. But I’ve come to the conclusion that I need my unconfidence. I need to think my writing is no good. Because clearly, as soon as I think I’ve got something worthwhile, it shows I’ve got too cocky and lost the knack.
So, onto round 2 of the Flash Fic Challenge tomorrow. Another weekend of 48 hours to write 1000 words on a defined genre, location and object that I’ll only find out when I wake tomorrow. Remind me to write something terrible if I want to make the final…