Cooking and writing, eating and reading.

Let’s say you’re really good at eating food. You’re a gourmet consumer. You know what’s good… if you’ve done your homework, you might even know why it’s good.
And then, at some point, you try to become a cook.
Maybe you’re cooking is bad, or maybe it’s okay — maybe it’s even good, and people compliment you on it.
But no matter what, that first major dish you cook? Even if it’s good, it’s not going to be great, not by the standards that you, as a consumer, judge such things.
That is the point where people often decide to not work on cooking as a serious endeavor anymore, rather than working on getting their cooking to catch up to their taste. If they need to make themselves some food, they do it, workmanlike, from a prepackaged thing out of the pantry, or they have some soup and a sandwich; they make it well enough to do the job, and that’s it — it’s just meant to fill you up. If they want great food, they feed that desire by consuming someone else’s cooking.
But if you’re really gung-ho about becoming a great cook (or if you sort of like your cooking anyway, even if it’s not the best thing you’ve ever had), time and practice and the long, slow teaching of years will eventually improve your end product to the point where… well, you might still be able to nitpick it to yourself, but you can usually step back and stay, objectively, “This is pretty great.”
Make sense? Okay.
Rather than make you reread that top bit and play mental word-substitution, I’ll do it for you:

Let’s say you’re really good at reading. You know what’s good… you’ve done your homework, and even know why it’s good.
And then, at some point, you try to become a writer.
Maybe you’re writing is bad, or maybe it’s okay — maybe it’s even good, and people compliment you on it.
But no matter what, that first novel you write? Even if it’s good, it’s not going to be great, not by the standards that you, as a reader, judge such things.
That is the point where people often decide to not work on writing as a serious endeavor anymore. If they need to write something (maybe for work), they do it, maybe following an established formula for the genre or topic; they do it well enough, and that’s it. If they want great stories, they feed that desire by reading someone else’s work.
But if you’re really gung-ho about becoming a great writer (or if you sort of like your writing anyway, even if it’s not the best thing you’ve ever read), time and practice and the long, slow teaching of years will eventually improve your end product to the point where… well, you might still be able to nitpick it to yourself, but you can usually step back and stay, objectively, “This is pretty great.”

(Ira Glass talks about this whole process in this YouTube video, (mostly) unflinchingly using his own old work as an example. It obviously inspired this ramble.)
I know the people who’ve done this, both for their cooking and their writing (in one special case, it’s the same person), and it’s really something to see.
I am lucky to be someone who likes the food they cook and the stuff they write even when it’s not that great, and when it’s only actually even good after some work — the actual cooking and writing is enjoyable enough, I suppose (it’s just the cleanup/revision that I dislike). Even when it’s the literary equivalent of bachelor omelets in the microwave, I like it, and like it enough to keep fiddling with it. I think it must be so much harder for someone who doesn’t feel that way, and works to get their skill to catch up to their taste while disliking all the products that come from that learning period. Rather defines the term “tortured artist” for me.
Or maybe there aren’t people like that; maybe we all secretly like the taste of our own horrible culinary experiments, even when we know they’d make most people sick to their stomach?
No, I’m sure that’s not right — people throw their ‘bad’ stories out all the time (or so I hear).
I don’t, but that’s me.
You?