Agonies of a Young Author

I had an Epiphany of the Week, but I've been sidling up to this idea for months now, so in all reality it's not that shocking.

I hate my published work.

Which is a horrible, terrible, awful thing to say on my professional blog about my work, to publicize my work to potential readers and publishers. Really, it's asinine to say such a thing.

Still the truth though.

I'm not sure if the emotion is based on the hours and hours of creation, and the hours and hours of revision that went into the completion of each piece. It might be just a case of "familiarity breeds contempt." I've no doubt it's an element.

But I also know that the pieces I'm most proud of are still sitting on my desktop after multiple rejections. Then I remember that not many days ago I wrote how my poem "A Writer's Apology" was the published piece I'm most proud of. Then I notice the subconscious qualifier of published. And finally I get fed up with myself for not being happy with myself along with the simultaneous acknowledgment of ambition and the desire to be the best at my passion. None of these thoughts should be cringe-worthy, but the tangle in my head would like to contradict.

I have flashes of content- a title, a new technique, an example of word choice.  I would never say I'm ashamed of my pieces. I've worked too hard for that. I'm glad of what I've achieved, and I wouldn't change anything. Still, I have a nagging sense of ... disappointment? discouragement? distrust? And the feeling persists until I push it all away with disgust.

I have the suspicion that I'm better at fiction, and only write poetry because I know the ending is only within a few more lines.

Right Now:
What I'm listening to: Sara Jackson Holman "Cellophane"
What I want most: faster internet... all these downloads are killing my reaction time