I rarely feel this way about my writing, though some of my “intellectual children” are brighter and more beautiful than others. I often set aside a fictional story — no, “set aside” is wrong, I shove it forcibly into the back of a drawer — only to rediscover it, years later, and think, “Damn — where did this come from? Who wrote this? This is good. I wish I’d writ — wait, I think I did! I did write this. What the hell?” I don’t even remember doing it. So as you say, our words may be more worthy of our love, care, and respect than we realize, and if we saw them coming from another, we might be in awe.
Reading through this, though, I felt a twinge of sorrow for how I’ve seen, refused to see, and hidden away my voice whenever possible. I don’t know that I can love the misbegotten little monster, and now it has withered away from lack of care. It cracks at inopportune times, and is easily dragged off pitch.
Strangely, though, your story would have had me singing — in the shower, at least — had no one else been in the house to hear me.
