The pair of shoes chose me, I thought. They waved from the display, their simple style with subtle detail catching my eye. They were Janna shoes, casual flats, and I was enamored by their rosy hue. The fact that they peeped an adorable hello from beneath the cuff of my jeans excited me about fall's wardrobe possibilities.
I was going to buy them.
Until I got to the register, where, somehow, their presentation seemed different. The color wasn't so warm a rose. The stitching was shoddy. The soles looked like cheap rubber slapped on with little care. They were not Janna shoes.
Was it the light? A more perceptive eye or change in my mood? What made me see the shoes differently?
Writing is this way, you know. We can work a piece with feelings of love. It's perfect. We envision where it's going and what it might do. And then with no warning we see the piece through different eyes. The mechanics are jumbled, it just doesn't flow. The voice isn't right. And suddenly we don't love it anymore.
What happens? What is it that makes such a difference?
And how do we know when we really have something of worth?