We’re an odd lot, us writers. We create these stories by putting dollops of our soul in word form and then send them out in the world to be free range word babies. Word babies. They are the concepts our brains birth. And it’s a sad day when you look back at one of these children of yours and realize what an ugly, misshapen lump of paragraphs you’ve created. Especially when you remember that little guy with such fondness. Oh, the feels.
What’s a writer to do?
Keep going. Try again.
Try the plastic surgery of revision.
Bury it. Kick some dirt on that shit and keep pounding away at the keyboard. You’ve got excellent author genetics and a fertile mind. It’ll get there.
Oh the things I have to tell myself to get through the day.