The problem with me is that I'm too picky about everything I read. There was a point as a child when I liked just about everything. Then I grew up. Now I'm too discriminating, or critical, depending on how you look at it.
I don't even like my own books. What am I supposed to do if interviewed?
Q. How did you come up with the idea for your first book?'
A. I started writing and it happened.
Q. Which is your favorite book?
A. I don't have a favorite. I hate them all.
Q. Why don't you like them?
A. Clearly, you haven't read my blog, or you would know.
Q. Why do you pursue writing if you don't like what you write?
A. I ask myself that all the time.
The truth is, there comes a point in my creative process where a sordid sort of absolute detestation takes place toward the offspring of my imagination. That's how I know it's finished.
Because, really, if I look at it one more time, I'm going to delete it and start something else that's just plain awful.
It's like Degas who was always redoing his paintings. He'd take them off his friend's walls, spirit them home and work them over again, sometimes ruining them completely. This bears eerie resemblance to myself.
Except Degas was good.
He had one friend who got tired of having the paintings swiped and decided to chain them to the wall.
I don't have anyone who can swipe my computer and lock up my novels and tell me enough is enough though.
Rats.
