I’ve written a couple of novels, and I’m in the middle of revising a third (the first is on-line here, if anyone is interested). And every so often I’ll be reading a book, and be struck by the quality of the writing, and I’ll say, “Oh, I simply can’t write like this! I wish I could write like this!” I’ll sometimes have the same experience while reading blogs. I’ll read a book review by Julie or by Lars and think, “Gosh, they do this well. Why should I bother?”*

But here’s the thing, and it’s the most important thing I’ve learned in fifteen years of on-line activity: you can only write like yourself. I can’t write like Steven Brust or Terry Pratchett or Lois McMaster Bujold or Roger Zelazny…but then, they don’t write like each other, either, and I wouldn’t want them to.

But I can write like me. I can write so that my prose pleases me, so that it when I read it aloud it flows smooth as molasses. I can write it so that it makes Jane laugh, and makes me smile when I come back to it.

In the end, I have to trust to my judgement, to my sense of what works. I have to write for me. And if other folks like what I write (and they do seem to), that’s gravy. Tasty gravy, and I like it a lot…but the meat and potatoes are in the writing.

* I’m not fishing for compliments, here, nor is this evidence of some kind of crisis of confidence. I’m just reflecting.