I seem to be saying that more often than usual lately, which I guess might be a good sight. However, more often than not on subsequent readings of my work once some time has passed I come to regret my decision to accept what I had originally written. It is entirely possible that I will come to the same conclusion in the future when I reread this particular bit I just finished. However for the moment, I am actually pleased with it.
I managed, at least I hope, to turn the action-oriented writing I am good at into the character-based development I am striving to improve. What could have been a simple moment turned into a significant one with the addition of a little failure on the part of the main character. I had already decided some time ago that this story would involve a lot of failure, and only now when I get around to introducing it am I suddenly pleased with what I wrote. I will not pass by such a connection without analyzing it.
It could be, I suppose, that I was annoyed with myself for not introducing any failure into a story that I had decided would be primarily about failure. If that was the case, then what I am feeling now might not necessarily be pleasure with the quality of what I just wrote, but satisfaction at having finally started taking the story where I intend it to go (or at least in the same vague direction).
Then again, it could be that writing good stuff might involve the application of failure. Part of the reason I decided to include large amounts of failure in this piece is because I believe most of life is a series of mistakes and failures interspersed with moments of levity and brief success. Bitter, I suppose, but apparently the conclusion I have reached, and so I tend to revel in those moments of levity and success. Yet perhaps because of this idea, writing stories about characters who succeed too often feels wrong to me. Perhaps my previous work was not so much bad as it was about the wrong subject matter. Maybe if I had been writing about failure all along I would not...well, feel like a failure of a writer.
To think I was supposed to be sleeping right now. I attempted to, I really gave it a valiant effort. Yet as always, my mind would not let me sleep. Thinking about a good conversation I had earlier, running bits of this story through my mind, and of course the inevitable wanderings that my mind takes at all times of day all kept me awake. Again, as usual, just as soon as I started to drift off I inexplicably woke back up and could not drift again at all. So instead of laying there wasting time, I powered my computer back up and started pounding away at the keyboard. I ended up producing something with which I am actually pleased. Strange.