How are you so confident with everything you do

Dear c-173,

I think it’s twofold. No, threefold.

1. I’m pretty comfortable with constructive criticism. Not just implementing it, but also sorting it into a manageable size. If someone I respect says, Stiefvater, that’s a little rocky, here’s my supporting argument, I’m usually pretty good about assessing whether I feel that’s something I need to take on. That means if some rando shouts to me on the street that I need to reconsider my life choices, I don’t internalize that. If an internet troll tells me to die in a fire, I don’t internalize that. If a guy I literally have never seen before shakes his head at my car and tells me I have no taste, it doesn’t register as information I need to act upon. If a friend brings something to me, then I start to pay attention, but the everyday slings and arrows of existing surrounded by judgment? Shrug. This is closely related to my opinion that you should like what you like. 

2. I’m okay with being a work in progress. It doesn’t hurt my feelings to post something that isn’t perfect. Perfect is an optical illusion, an end of the road that is unreachable. That means literally everything I attempt will fall short of it by some measure. All I can do is try my absolute best at the moment I am in, and then judge my efforts by however good I am at a thing right then. My first published book isn’t anywhere near as good as my 13th published book. My 13th will be nowhere near as good as my 21st. Does that mean I should wait until the 21st to show anything to anyone?  

2b. I might not have confidence in whatever I’m doing, but I have confidence that I can learn to be better at it. I don’t play the banjo right now, but you know what, I bet that if I had to play the banjo for an upcoming author extravaganza, I could learn. And again — I don’t have to be perfect at the thing. I can just do my best.*

3. I have a sense of humor about it. I’m a ridiculous creature. I understand what that means, looking in from the outside. You think my ripped jeans are weird, well, they kinda are. You think my car is strange, well, it sorta is. You think my music taste is outrageous? Totally is. I don’t care if you laugh. I like what I like, and I don’t care if I’m a prismacolor unicorn of a human.

3b. I’m not for everyone. I’m fine with that, too. We’re not vacuum cleaners. There’s not an objective right or wrong for us to be. We’re more like songs — and not every song is for every person, no matter how well-written or great it is. Just be the best jingle you can be and that’s good enough.

urs,

Stiefvater

*a prerequisite for all of this is that you have to try hard and be present and committed to your own life story. It’s not an incredibly popular option right now, particularly among some of my bag-wine peers, but what can I say? Life works better when you’re there for it.

Okay, so I'm /actually/ about to write a porn fic to AO3, and I'm interested in knowing what the difference is between the M rating and E rating. Able to enlighten me?

Mature is ‘and then they made love.’ Explicit is ‘and here’s how they did it exactly.’

To wit: mature.

He looked at the envelope, spread out before him.

God, he’d never been this hungry.

Could he be gentle enough? Slow enough? He didn’t want to damage it, didn’t want to do anything he’d regret… but no, no, it seemed the envelope wanted this as much as he did. It slipped into his hands, it folded as he asked. When it was time for more, the card was waiting, and he somehow knew exactly what to do. He moved with his correspondence in a dance as old as the mail system, and when it was over, he was smiling and the envelope was completely, thoroughly sealed.

Explicit:

The envelope waved its flap in the air slowly, gently, and he could see the faint shimmer of the adhesive traced along its fold. It was like a taunt, a dare: won’t you? And he would, oh, God, he would, lifting the envelope firmly to his lips, licking slowly at first, then faster, more firmly, tasting the envelope’s essence, the faint bitterness, the sweetness to follow—

Oh, he couldn’t help but smile at how it felt in his hands. It was so perfectly folded. Its paper was rough against his fingers, and its crossed folds shifted slightly as it opened for his eager tongue. Yes, yes…

Now the card, and his hand trembled as he lifted it, as he held the envelope, stretching it wide. Would it fit? Oh… oh, yes, it would fit, it slid in smooth and quick and filled the envelope to bursting, oh, made for each other, and he smiled in delight at how perfect it was.

He was ready. Now, now, now: with one swift movement he folded the flap over and he pressed, yes, he pressed the flap down and it stuck, God, it stuck perfectly, and he closed his eyes in bliss.

Afterwards, he stroked the envelope, and thought about addresses.