Before I joined the online critique group Critique Circle I thought my writing was good. There, I said it. But that was in the days when I still considered writing to be 'my guilty little secret'. Back then, no one even knew I wrote, let alone got to read any of it. Fortunately for them!
CC has showed me the true error of my ways. Critters of all kinds (The good, bad, and ugly!) have collectively beaten me with their clue sticks and forced me to confront my writing's true awfulness. With time and regular beatings, I've got better. MUCH better. Yes, I was that bad.
So why do I now feel like I'm the crappiest writer in the world? Is it a case of 'the more I know, the less I realise I know'?
My ignorant days really were blissful. I used to scribble away quite happily--my ego the size of a small moon, unmolested by self-doubt. These days, my ego is roughly the size of a pea--a pea that's fallen to the floor and remained undiscovered for several months.
Why is knowledge like getting a stronger prescription of spectacles? And as I learn even more about writing, will I eventually throw up my hands in despair and abandon it forever when I once again fall short of my idea of perfection?
I was much happier when I knew nothing.