The Pathology of Writing

I have determined that, when I have completed a work, I will revise it as best I can and set it aside to cool for a month. After a month, I will read it with fresh eyes, force it on my loved ones (who have done me no harm, and don’t deserve that sort of treatment) for critique, correct what I decide to correct, and then mail it off to the highest paying appropriate market with no further thought.

This, after mulling over the flash yesterday and getting no discernable work done on Blown Goats (working title, not appropriate, only funny when you consider the opening scene). The lack of work done on BG is particularly irritating when I researched markets a bit and discovered that a flash piece is likely to gross about $3.

Y’know, if I didn’t like writing it, that wouldn’t be worth the stamp. Fortunately, I’m doing this for, in order:

The love of doing it
The love of reading something I no longer remember writing, and liking it
The love of having people I care about read my stuff, whether they like it or not
The pleasure of having unsuspecting others read my stuff, whether they like it or not.

My assumption is there is a combination of masochism (point 1), narcissism (point 2), and exhibitionism (points 3 & 4) at work, here. I need to flog myself, but only if I can do it in front of a mirror and in public?

Something like that.

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