I have a question to pose in this blog. But before I ask the question, I’d like to give a little introduction:

I love to read. Always have. For as long as I can remember, I would sneak flashlights into bed so that I could read late into the night after my parents went to sleep. Once I reached junior high, they stopped fighting me and just let me stay up late reading, knowing I would face the consequences in the morning when I didn’t want to get up for school.

I read lots of genres. I love mysteries, anything from Agatha Christie, and Lilian Jackson Braun to Jonathan Kellerman. I love fantasies, Terry Brooks and Tolkien to science fiction, Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov. I love straight up novels from Margaret Atwood to Susan Howatch and Jennifer Weiner. I love comedies particularly anything written by Bruce Campbell. I love Stephen King with all my heart although I do wish he’d tone it down a little bit. I can barely stomach some of his stories anymore.

The first book I remember reading and it really bothers me that I can’t remember the title was a book about a dodo bird and a princess. I think. I was very young. But I remember flying through the pages, eyes alight in delight. From there anything was fair game. Whatever I could get my hands on, I would read (much to my parents dismay in some cases).

Now that I’m an (ahem…cough…cough) adult, I don’t have as much time to read. When I do start a book, I usually finish it in one day. I’m much too impatient to stretch it out over a couple of days. In the past two weeks, I have read 7 books. This is brought on by spending an evening at the library. I wrote for two hours and then spent half an hour looking for good books to read.

So having said all that, here is my question:

Do any authors enjoy reading their own work?

Because quite frankly, I don’t. Which is terrible. I’ve always been. . .I’m not sure if humble is the correct word, but I have a very low self esteem and find it difficult to be content with and proud of anything I do – with the exception of my handsome and brilliant son, which of course, half the credit goes to his father. But as far as writing goes, I’m never content. While I’m writing it, I feel the flow and am caught up in what I’m doing, but once I start editing and rereading, I’m always disgusted with myself.

So I ask, does anyone else feel this way? Or does this mean I’m a terrible writer? Or perhaps I should man up and take a little more pride in my work? Any thoughts at all? 

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