I have to admit: There’s a certain sense of pride that blooms in my heart when I’m done writing a scene. I read through it and I think to myself “well shit, this is pretty good. Well, at least I think it’s good.”.
It makes me feel silly.
It makes me feel happy.
It makes me want toot my own damn horn. (Toot! toot!)
It sometimes makes me want to pound my chest and go “YEAAAAAHHH BOI!”
… but I don’t.
… I’m sure I annoy the shit out of my coworkers with my antics, but I can’t help but feel the joy bubble out from my throat. I want to share it. I want to dance and giggle. I want to talk about it.
We’re bogged down. We’re working hard. We’re under pressure. But we can’t help but share. We want to share!
It makes me want to get better. I wrote this. Me. And in a few months, someone is going to read it and laugh, giggle, fall in love with the characters and the story that I’ve helped flesh out and make real.
Pride goeth before the fall
I wonder: is it bad? Am I blasphemous for saying that?
Isn’t the fall the good part? falling, not knowing where you’ll land. The wind rushing through you. The exhilarating, and scary, fear of the unknown. Wondering what the hell is going to happen when you land?
It scares me as well. “What if they hate it?”, I think to myself. What if they say “This is such pretentious horse shit. What the Fuck were they thinking?” That scares me.
But…then I think of what I wrote. And it all fades away. Someone out there will like it. I’ll cling to them and hope they’ll feel the same way about these characters and story as I do. We’ll squeal when ___ did this or when ____ said that.
And it’ll all feel like it was worth it.
I know it will.
My little game that could.