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The other day, I woke up and I hated everything. My phone, the neighbors, my hair, the food in my fridge…you name it, I hated it. Not with a blinding white hot heat kind of hate. Just with a grumpy kind of hate, the kind that swirls around in your subconscious long after whatever nightmare you had but can’t remember and which put you in a bad mood in the first place has faded to nothing but a tiny nagging feeling of disgust and this…hate.

And that morning, most of all, I hated my writing.

I lay in bed, thinking about my WIP, and I despaired. It was awful. I knew it was the truth in the depths of my soul. It sucked rocks like nobody’s business. It blew chunks. It was more foul than rancid monkey guts. All those hours, all that effort, for this? This piece of garbage? What was I thinking?

So I just lay in bed. I did not get up and write that day. How could I face something so vile? No, better to watch reruns of Murder She Wrote and curse at the loud dog down the street and wonder if I could manage to go to the store for chocolate-covered gummy bears in my bathrobe without running into anyone I know.

I may have been hormonal. Maybe. Regardless, the next morning, I felt better.

I got up the next day and went to my office and opened up my WIP. I read it. It was actually not so bad. In the process of rereading, I got inspired by my own writerly not-so-bad-ness. And so I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

What have I learned from this? Always keep a bag of chocolate-covered gummy bears in your bedroom closet. Also: never judge your own work. Let someone else tell you it’s crap, preferably after you finish it. And someone will, have no doubt. But someone else might love it as well, maybe even enough to pay you for it.

Until then, just stop whining and write.