I’ve just started reading one of Shirley Jackson’s earlier
novels, The Bird’s Nest, and it’s
teaching me something important:
I was never as good a writer as I thought I was.
Not that I ever had a particularly high opinion of my writing you understand, but I did have a vague notion of occupying a certain – albeit undefined – position on the spectrum of Very Good to Very Bad. That’s changed and so I’ve demoted myself.
I am in awe of this woman’s skill and mental energy. And if that means my self-perception pales further in comparison, I consider it a good thing because knowing myself is one the two biggest preoccupations I have. (The other is knowing the answer to the meaning of life, the universe and everything, but that line of enquiry never fails to offer many disparate paths in a fog-shrouded wilderness. Knowing how good or bad I am at something is much easier.)
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