I organized some of my old writing notebooks yesterday, and reminisced about when I began this journey in earnest eight years ago with a shitty novel/script/thing. My writing improved by football-field lengths in six years (for comparison’s sake, the road to becoming a good writer starts in your room and ends on the moon). Hell, I’ve improved just between this time last year and now. The first short story that I posted on this website, “Broken Watch,” is dull and near unreadable to me now. Ironically, I brought that story to the blog because I thought it had an exciting and tense opening. Around the same time I wrote “Broken Watch,” I also penned “The College Station All-Male Feminist Union.” Though that story had more work done editing it than “Watch,” and that story has more drafts coming, I still like reading “Union” even to this day. And if that fact doesn’t astound you to your core, then you don’t know that many artists.
There are a lot of factors I can credit to that leap in quality. I grew as a writer when I learned to stop aping the creatives that inspired me.