It was the summer of 2018.
I had just finished writing my second book and was polishing the first half as much as possible so my husband could read it (and love it) while I was away and then give me his unending adoration for writing such a beautifully articulated story.
I left. I saw my family. I came home again.
But my husband did not completely love the first half of my book.
He enjoyed it, but had a few constructive critiques for me. They were good critiques - really good, and only a few. But all I could hear, deep inside, drumming like a mantra was;
I knew I wasn’t good enough. And I was right.
I didn’t touch my book again for an entire year.
I had just finished writing my second book and was polishing the first half as much as possible so my husband could read it (and love it) while I was away and then give me his unending adoration for writing such a beautifully articulated story.
I left. I saw my family. I came home again.
But my husband did not completely love the first half of my book.
He enjoyed it, but had a few constructive critiques for me. They were good critiques - really good, and only a few. But all I could hear, deep inside, drumming like a mantra was;
I knew I wasn’t good enough. And I was right.
I didn’t touch my book again for an entire year.
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