For instance, I recently finished Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children and made the mistake of pulling up my manuscript for a skim. This is a mistake I need to stop making, and a horrible cycle.
Thing is, I know I’ll never write like them. First of all, my favorite authors are older than me (if not dead.) I’m probably not going to write with the skill of a thirty year old at twenty-one, not unless I develop mad talent.
Not to mention the books I love most are classics. I’m talking Charles Dickens, with the beautiful vocabulary and seamless ability to paint a picture…
Secondly, everyone has a different style. Trying to mimic another style will only sound forced and unnatural, but when that style is so much smoother, it’s hard to remember that.
Struck with insomnia last night, I couldn’t help wondering if it gets easier. Do you accept your own writing when you’re older? Is there a point where you find contentment with your style?
Maybe I should create a policy of not reading other books when I’m writing something .
One thing I do know–even if my works now aren’t absolutely brilliant, they’ll give way to improvement as I grow. That’s why comparing myself to Charles Dickens isn’t going to work; the situations are different.
January is over, and cold weather clearly left me reflective. Now the days have become mysteriously warm; I suppose the frost of winter thawed so I can actually ask these questions.
What do you do when reading a book makes you feel painfully untalented? Does growing older make it easier?