Oh, I’m not talking about age. (Forty-four is a beautiful age, bested only by forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, etc., etc.)
I’m talking writing maturity. You know, the point in your career when you can’t pass your own bad writing off as good, even to yourself.
Let’s face it. We all suffer from the occasional stinky writing. Experience doesn’t stop the stink, it just makes it harder to recognize. But when true maturity is reached, your nose crinkles immediately at the stench.
It’s an ugly moment… but you can’t help but be grateful for it.
Yep, it rankles. It rankles bad.
Post-note: Still smarting from a bout of particularly foul writing yesterday afternoon. Teach me to try to squeeze a bit of creativity into my week of weed management.