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When I started writing I had no idea how many tendrils of self doubt would begin to creep into my mind. Like fog drifting in from the coast, my original optimism became clouded with uncertainty and I started to became over-critical of everything I'd written.
I'm usually someone brimming with self confidence and I regularly start DIY projects with zero prior experience, simply trusting that everything will work out okay. And it usually does.
Writing, however, was going to require a whole new kind of courage. Do I enjoy writing? Yes! But when the joy of creating something new fades away you're often left with a crippling surety that no one is going to enjoy what you've written.
Feeling so naked and vulnerable was a surprise, but presenting your act of creation to the world is akin to offering up your baby for sacrifice.
Terrifying.
Then a wise friend told me something that helped to soothe my trembling soul: You are not your art.
How much you care about something is directly proportional to how much time and energy you've invested into it and, let's face it, books take a lot of both. But at the end of the day you offer it up as its own entity, separate from yourself.
Like a parent who sends their child off into the world to fail or succeed, we're left standing alone nervously to watch. Whether it's accepted or not, your book is judged on its own merit. The writer receives no guarantees, just the satisfaction of having created something new, and is left to shake off any bad reviews (because some are inevitable) and head back to the laptop.
And start the next book.