If I ever get published, I always wonder who will really read it. I also bleed curious as to who might criticize what I have written. It might be an old professor who sees my name in print, then peruses through whatever it might be that gets onto the page, and he or she groans with displeasure and tells me how ridiculous it is. Or it might be classmates from B-W or maybe even from high school.
I probably would feel a bit put-down to be honest; I personally have a rough time accepting that what I write is okay. People have told me I’m great, but I have some complex or problem where it’s difficult for me to believe them. I remember in high school when I penned two one-act plays for the drama department and the snide comments I had heard from people in the background – at least for the last one – that my story was tripe, that it wasn’t funny, that whoever thought it was a good idea to put this steaming pile on stage was high off something. It was never a direct mumbling, but I heard from others about what was said. It hurt a bit. I don’t deny it. I am incredibly self-conscious.
Also, I think about the critically panned work of Stephanie Meyer and how many people have found her novels to be horrendous. There are others, of course, who adore the series. They are rabid fans; they love it with a frightening love, indeed. I don’t want to turn into a Stephanie Meyer though, if I ever do get known for my writing. To have such a polarized view of what I write just rattles me.