The two killers of my writing are pride and fear
Pride kills because I become so attached to what I have to say that I can’t bear criticism, I make foolish mistakes, I’m dismissive. I’m like a predator gorging myself on zebra leg. I can feel the kicks and I choose to ignore them. My readers are prey.
Fear kills because I’m so deathly afraid of making a mistake that I freeze and don’t dare make a move. Essentially, I play dead for fear that a predator will discover the warm blood running through my veins and take a bite. Living by fear is hardly living at all.
Both approaches have something in common: an untoward focus on myself. Better to write from love. Love is when I publish something just before I think it’s ready. It’s when I trust that others won’t attack me unfairly. Love is more alive than life itself. It simultaneously captures fear of death and the reckless vainglory of pride.
So many of my ideas accumulate dust in the dusty recesses of my mind. At one point the great idea was all I could think about. If you asked me about my day then, the idea would burst out. At one point I could jot down the exact insight and how I got it, but not anymore. Now the idea is implanted, and I don’t remember how it got there. Should I throw it away? What if it’s bearing weight?
I suspect other killers of good writing: envy, sloth, greed. There’s seven of them, and they don’t just kill good writing.