Misimagination

I do not think much of my writing. Not like I used to. Though it would be hard to insist that younger me had much of a palate or sensibility for good things.

History would beg to differ on this.

No, I’m fairly certain I’ve never been much better than the average writer. And, as any partaker of this craft knows, being average might as well mean that you are a producer of the most vile swill.

I think there’s an argument to be made that this exercise is wholly self-assaulting, a practice of further damaging my already astronomically bruised pride and ego.

Try as I might, however, this is the one thing that rests on my mind. It is my forever partner, gnawing at my ankles, demanding I pay it even the slightest attention, lest it consume me once and for all.

This is the response.