I Love My Writing, I Hate My Writing

In my vast experience writing (note: sarcasm), I have found that, with each sentence I write, I have two opposite emotions at war inside of me. They have thrown up the barricades and settled in for a long, bloody war. At the end of each writing endeavor, I find that neither have gained much ground, though sometimes one may gain slight advantage over the other.

I have a love/hate relationship with my writing. On the one hand I obsessively work on whatever project is in front of me at a given time. I sit and ponder the words in my mind, mulling them over until I have discovered the "perfect" sentence structure and descriptions to use. I become unreasonably happy over the resolution of even the tiniest plot-points, and I am giddy when I nail a thesis statement. I love my work.

And then the battle lines form as Hate rears its cynical head and decimates all that I have slaved over for hours.
 I finish writing the paper or story or blogpost, and I sit back and read through it.

And I hate it.

I do not hate it because the topic is useless, or the argument is faulty, or the storyline is cliche (though sometimes that does happen). I hate it because I know I can make it better.

My hatred for my writing comes not from the content itself, but from what I see lacking in the content. I read the clumsily-constructed sentences and I grimace, because I know that I can do better, that I am able to do better.

And that I failed.

My hatred stems from the deep-rooted fear of failure, and when I read through my writing I see that failure in stark, Times New Roman font.

"And so it begins."

I hate my writing, but I cannot stop writing. Because I love my writing. Even as I think it is pathetic, weak, and inadequate, still I refuse to give up. I will read, reread, tweak, ask others to read, my work. Because I love words too much to give up on them. Somewhere, deep down inside of me, the optimist drags herself out of the mud, stands up, and tries one more time.

One more time. 

Even as the pessimist inside of me shoves her face back into the mud again.

I will never be satisfied with my work, because somewhere deep inside of me there will always be that voice that hates my writing, telling me I can do better and that I have failed once again.
But I will never give up on my work, because there will always be that voice that loves my writing, telling me to try one more time, to work on it, to read through it again, because I can fix it. 

This is the struggle of the writer and the perfectionist in me, striving to do better even in the face of my failures and mistakes.

Note: I read through this post and nearly deleted it three times. It is a wonder I didn't leave it a draft!