Have you ever liked one of your own blog posts on WordPress, whether accidentally or on purpose? No? Well, the other day I accidentally liked a post of mine, and though I was quick to unlike it, WordPress caught me out and sent me a notification. However, this wasn’t similar to all the other notifications in which you lovely people like my posts because you think they’re awesome. 😉
Technically, the post was certainly about me, but that’s beside the point. Apparently liking it makes me vain. And you know what? So be it. I don’t mind being called vain for liking my own writing. There’s nothing wrong with feeling proud of my posts and novels, and I think every other writer feels the same way about their own work. In fact, I don’t think anyone would’ve gotten anything published if they weren’t.
Writers by nature are narcissistic creatures. We like to think that our writing matters, and we crave the compliments and get depressed at the slightest hint of criticism. We fall in love with our characters, ideas and words before anybody else, and we craft them lovingly and exercise utmost care in how we handle them. We think they’re perfect. Some might even see themselves reflected in their words. We might end up being the only people to ever love them, but that’s okay. After all, we write for, first and foremost, us.
I’m proud of my words. I realise they will likely never be as beautiful as Catherynne M. Valente’s, or as inspiring as John Green’s, or as chilling as Stephen King’s, or as magical as J.K.Rowling’s, or as funny as Terry Pratchett’s. The best I can hope for is that people find them enjoyable. I have mentioned before that I would like to write something amazing, but every time I feel like I’m close, I come across a book or a simple blog post that shatters that illusion (for example The Fault in our Stars by John Green – seriouslygoreadit rightnowitisbrilliant)… but still I feel proud.
I even feel proud of the crappy things I wrote as a kid which – ironically, in a moment of vanity – I threw away, thinking of them as embarrassing. They’re still my words. My brain children. My ideas. I’m a vain writer, and I’m not afraid to admit it. 🙂
What about you? Would you call yourself a vain writer? Are you proud of what you wrote, or would you call it conceited to think of your writing as good?