I did 2K on my book yesterday. Reworked and expanded the climactic fight scene ending to make more exciting, to put the hero in greater danger, to give the sidekick a bit of the spotlight and to give the heroine something to do other than just scream, "save me, save me". The villain and his chief henchmen ultimately fall, but at a huge cost to the good guys. What I wrote yesterday was pretty good. The whole thing will lead beautifully into the ending, where the bad guys are thwarted and taken away, a loser wannabe shows himself a true hero, a lone-wolf hero learns the value of trust and sacrifice, and love blossoms among the wreckage.
So why do I feel like such a talentless hack? The whole thing sounds unbelievably trite when I summarize it, as in the above paragraph. I write and write and write, and feel great when I'm writing. I feel great when I read what I've written. Then... I feel terrible when I think about all the other books out there, all of them loved and slaved over by countless writers, and I think, "Who am I to think that I can - or should - throw my little teapcupful into the wide, wide sea?"
Also, maybe I should restrict musing like this to my journals, instead of throwing it out onto this blog. After all, people come here to be amused by a clown, don't they?
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