The little voice is my friend.
It urges me to keep on writing, to not give up. It reassures me that one day, my manuscript will meet my expectations. One day, the voice tells me, in the not-too-distant future, I will be saying ‘This is the best I can do on my own’, and I will be ready to send it to a professional editor.
The little voice is my foe.
It tells me that my writing is no good. That nobody will be interested in reading a story about an ordinary teacher in ordinary New Zealand. That I can’t possibly claim to be a writer because I haven’t done any creative writing courses. That all the months (actually, the year) spent on this novel are wasted because I will never finish it to a published book.
I push that little voice away until the friendly one comes back. The novel is not finished, it says. Once it is edited and polished, I will be proud to claim it as my own.