You bet writers dislike their own prose sometimes.
I mean, I occasionally do sit down with oodles of time and make something I halfway like.
Often though, I am embarrassed about what I have written two weeks later.
I am glad McMurtry didn’t let it stop him. Do not let it stop you either.
(I get that blogging and writing novels are different beasts.)
By the time we got well set up in northern Virginia, with the family of Sam, Eleanor, and Clayton Adams as our neighbors and best friends, I was in the throes of a kind of work trauma that probably afflicts most writers who write prolifically: I had ceased to like my own prose. I had, by then, written six books and was nearly finished with a seventh. Thanks to the two movies made from my work I had some credibility, but not much.