I have written a long post - well, actually I've done it twice - about my disbelief at some of the stories that get published. It was filled with dismay and bitterness and a heaping helping of bruised ego. I wondered at what point, if ever, it was actually okay to question the editors' choices and to cite others who agreed with me for validation.
I erased them. A good idea, both times.
This writing thing is, for all but the super successful, a constant kick in the chops. You can write something you think is good, have your readers tell you it's good, and then watch as your self-esteem slowly shrivels like a vampire in noon sunlight as the rejections dance in. And it's galling - fucking galling - to see horribly written drivel like Twilight and 50 Shades of Lame-ass Soft Core make best-selling multimillionaires out of hacks. I want to be one of those successes. I want to be able to make writing my vocation, to be able to schedule time on the computer around taking care of my kids instead of dragging my ass out of bed at 5am and cranking out 500-750 works in 45 minutes on the slow crawl to a finished novel.
Well, it's good to want things. Makes me ambitious. Gives me me motivation. It may never happen, but it won't be from lack of trying. And while I might not be smart enough to accept my shortcomings as a writer, at least I knew enough not to burn any bridges behind me.