It’s a familiar feeling for many creative professionals: the work you’ve poured your heart and soul into – the piece that has garnered praise from clients, readers, and colleagues – is the one you can’t stand to look at. You get compliments, accolades, and even a paycheck, but a nagging voice in your head tells you it’s flawed, incomplete, or simply not as good as it could be. If you’ve ever felt this way, you’re not alone. This is a common experience among writers, photographers, designers, and artists, and it’s a feeling that can be both maddening and surprisingly productive.
The core of this paradox lies in the unique relationship between a creator and their creation. For a writer, a photographer, or any other artist, a project isn’t just a task; it’s an extension of themselves. It’s born from an idea, shaped by countless decisions, and brought to life with a mix of skill and raw passion. When it’s finally complete, the creator is left with a finished product they are too close to to ever see objectively.
A major reason we dislike our own work is the gap between vision and reality. In your mind, the idea is perfect. It’s a flawless concept, a masterpiece of form and function. But the moment you start translating that vision into reality – whether it’s with words, a camera, or a brush – it inevitably falls short. You see every imperfect sentence, every missed shot, the one spot on the canvas that to you only, screams, Too much lime green! You see every detail that didn’t quite capture the magic of the original idea. A reader or viewer sees the finished product and is impressed, but you see a lesser version of the thing you imagined.
This is a powerful and persistent source of dissatisfaction. The image you had in your head of a flawlessly composed photo, for example, is the standard against which you judge the final, published version. You notice the slight blur at the edge, the imperfection in the lighting, or the minor detail you couldn’t quite capture. These tiny flaws, invisible to an outside observer, loom large in your own mind. You picked a photo for an article, and your editor chose a different one, so you end up cursing yourself. Yet, eight times out of ten, they go with the same photo you chose, and somehow it gets dismissed in your mind.
As the creator, you’re cursed with an intimate knowledge of your work’s entire history. You know the backstory of every decision. You know what you had to cut for word count, the shortcuts you took to meet a deadline, and the parts you rewrote a dozen times because they just weren’t working. This behind-the-scenes knowledge makes it impossible to see the final product with fresh eyes.
For example, a client may rave about a photograph you took, but all you see is the frustration you felt trying to get the lighting right, or the dozen other shots that didn’t work out. This “curse of knowledge” is why many creative people rarely review their own work once it’s published. The thought of revisiting it is painful because it means reliving the struggle, and ugh, the editor changed a couple of things – which is their right.
Another powerful force at play is imposter syndrome. This is the feeling that you’re a fraud who will one day be “found out.” No matter how many compliments you receive, how many pieces you get published in major magazines, or how many clients tell you your work is exceptional, you still feel like a fake. You attribute your success to luck or to the kindness of others, rather than to your own talent and hard work.
This is especially common in creative fields, where success can feel subjective and intangible. Unlike a job where you can measure your performance with clear metrics, the value of creative work can feel abstract. When a major publication chooses your photo, it’s objective validation, but the imposter in you says, “They must not have had any other options.”
Many creative people are also perfectionists, and their high standards are a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s what pushes you to excel. It’s what makes you a meticulous writer who hates mistakes, even a simple typo. This attention to detail is a major reason for your success.
On the other hand, perfectionism can be paralyzing. The fear of making a mistake can lead to overworking a piece, or worse, to an inability to appreciate a work that is already excellent. When you’re a professional, the occasional typo or missed edit is an inevitable part of the process. It’s why publications have multiple rounds of editing. But to a perfectionist, that one small error can overshadow the entire piece, making it feel like a complete failure.
The kind of work you do can also affect your feelings. If you’re a professional writer who has worked for years without a byline, the shift back to bylined articles is a significant change. When you ghostwrite, the work is for the client, and your personal emotional investment is lower. But when your name is on the page, you take full ownership. Your success and your flaws feel personal.
The nervousness you’re experiencing with a new client, especially after a career transition, is a normal reaction. It’s a natural part of a professional who cares deeply about their reputation and their craft. The fact that a new editor told you your first piece was “ready to publish as is” with minimal edits is a powerful sign that your skills are already aligned with their needs. The nervousness you feel is simply the stress of adapting to a new system—a feeling that will fade with time and continued success.
Ultimately, the key is to recognize that your self-criticism is not a flaw; it’s a symptom of a highly developed creative mind. The drive to be better, to fix every imperfection, is what makes you good at what you do. The paradox of the creative professional is that the thing that makes you your own worst critic is also the engine that makes you so good at your job. So, next time you’re tempted to tear your own work apart, take a moment to be proud of the professional who created it in the first place. You’ve earned it.
John Berkovich Talks 