The first novel I ever wrote was so astoundingly bad that I eventually had to pulp every single draft I had once printed with pride.
Friends who read it then must have been incredibly polite, refusing to tell me just how bad it was. Perhaps a few were momentarily impressed that a nineteen year-old had completed his first novel… but in truth it was utter drivel, so confused and inexplicably rotten.
I’m glad that in the years that have followed my writing has improved significantly, and my worldview has matured.
I’m so grateful that I was not published in those days. Youthful influencers beware: one day you will forced to cringe at all you once put forth.