time devours even the gods themselves

 Because I, for some reason, stayed up long into the small hours of early morning, I also had a chance to whine about my writing to a friend that began as us wondering why people see me as a Slytherin when he sees me more as Huffleclaw. (Pottermore always sorts me into Hufflepuff, too.) After some time, we ended up talking about my writing and this creative writing course I took this semester. I told him I've gotten some real nice feedback from my group there, and it's true: at least one of them said I'm ready to be published. I took and still take that comment with a grain of salt, despite it meaning the world to me.

The course and the feedback helped me to see how my writing has developed, to be honest. I used to be awful at writing humor, but the text I worked on this course has made people laugh. There are the technical issues that come with writing in a language that's not my mother tongue, but no one's perfect, and I'm mostly working without a beta. Another thing that I have started to appreciate more? Definitely my imagination. I have thought about so many cliched scenarios that somewhere in-between I started coming up with pretty nice ideas as well. Whether I can match those ideas with the writing they deserve is another question, but that too is just a matter of diligent working and just writing. 

This post doesn't really have a point, but the conversation made me think about things and like my friend said, I shouldn't be ashamed of what makes my writing mine, be it overdramatic angst (it has toned down into a more reasonable level, though that depends on the series I write for) or silly fluff that doesn't serve a point other than to show off domestic cuteness.