I really want to get back into writing.
I was always really fucking into it. I had notebooks on notebooks of story notes, character analysis, lines of dialogue, maps, diagrams, illustrations. I was so, so into it. And I miss that.
There is a concept called an inner critic that my imaginary readers are probably familiar with. It lives in your head and says mean shit, especially when you’re new at a skill.
I’ve been working with mine for years, professionally and alone. I think I’ve made some pretty damn good progress unlearning a lot of toxic stuff. But it’s hard, and that bitch does not take days off.
Despite the fact that I’m barely an adult, my brain seems to believe I shouldn’t play, and that’s just stupid. Play is important for thousands of species and persists into adulthood for a fat chunk of them.
Unfortunately, no one is immune to society.
In my experience, the best way to combat your inner critic is to let yourself be totally and completely uncomfortable sometimes.
It sucks, but it’s worked for me.
You have to keep making art, even if your brain says it’s unfinished useless garbage. Because in the worst-case scenario, it’s not that bad. What, you spent some time on a thing? You’ve got time to spend.
Seriously, what, is someone going to be a little mean to me because they didn’t like my dialogue? Okay? I just won’t talk to that person anymore. Problem solved.
Also, what about all the better-case scenarios?