I am a self-professed scribbler for self gratification. I like to write to please myself and, being a contrary creature, I always end up never being pleased with the ends results.
As a great person once said: Am I happy? I am an artist. I am never happy.
I have no idea who said that or if I just made it up. Either way, it is true.
The self critic is never going to be happy. So what do you do? You give it to others for them to have a read.
The bias that exists from those who love you is palpable though, isn’t it? It harks back to yesteryear when you would proudly present a parent with a finger painting you made at nursery. Despite the incoherency of the piece (and the bit of dinner that plopped onto it whilst you ate and painted), they would enthuse about it and hail it a masterpiece.
The same thing goes for being an old and curmudgeonly writer like me. I present my dear husband with something of my ravings and he reads, patiently, before delivering his verdict.