Can I battle my own ego?

After three weeks, countless cups of coffee, and so much Laffy Taffy my teeth were starting to ache, I finished, edited, and uploaded my story on my livejournal page. And that's when the anxious neediness set in.

Five years ago, I was a happy little fanfic writer. I had a small following for a Buffy series I was writing, and was in the middle of writing an epic piece for the dueSouth fandom. Then I just stopped. I'd love to say I stopped because I realized my talents were being wasted, but I would be lying. Number one: I think fanfiction is a healthy and fun way to explore character development. Number two: that just wasn't the case with me. Because when I'm writing it, I'm having a blast. It's after I post it that I become a miserable wreck.

Part of the problem lies in my inability to contribute to fan communities. To me, forums and communities are the internet version of soul incubii. So I am an unknown entity in fannish communities, which automatically relegates my story to the yeah, we'll see pile. Added to that, the current offering is freaking long, which requires a commitment to read in a fandom that seems to appreciate shorter to-the-point pieces.

I said - in what was apparently an eloquent email, but which felt to me like whiny whinybuttness - that I would rather hateful comments than no comments at all, because that would mean at least people were reading it. Later, I told another friend I was debating that point of view and could not decide if I would rather hateful comments or no comments. I mean, would you rather someone hated what you wrote, or think no one bothered to read it at all?

There are many terrible fanfiction writers out there who post stories with impunity and receive feedback (though I suspect the authenticity of said feedback) that would make anyone envious. I don't think I'm a terrible fanfiction writer, but I post with trepidation and nervous stomach-twisting anxiety, and then I get so fucking pissed at myself.

I become convinced that a story, which not twelve hours beforehand I was pretty proud of, is utter crap. I start second-guessing decisions I made concerning character interactions, word choices, plot development, and even subject matter. I begin to believe I'd been deluding myself, passages of which I had been proud were stupid, humor I had enjoyed writing was instead trite and shallow. I'm such a terrible writer, I can't even think of a word other than stupid to describe how stupid my writing is.

So of course I stop writing. Because how could all that negativity be worth it?

But then another story idea pops into my head and I think, oooh fun! And I start writing and I forget the upcoming stomach-churning crap I'm going to put myself through; I forget the wondering if anyone will even bother reading it; I forget everything because I am immersed in something I love, mindless of the world around me except that one of my own creation. And the cycle begins again.

I don't know if it's worth it for something I don't even get a paycheck for, but for some reason, I feel compelled to keep doing it. For right now, I suppose it's enough. Of couse, it helps when your friends pimp your story so graciously on their journal. Don't know if it made people read it, but it did make me smile.

ETA: So I'm a big whiny dork from whiny dorktown. I've had three lovely comments on my story from actual strangers! Yes, people who do not know me let me know they liked my story. No, apparently I cannot battle my own ego.