Recently I wrote a short story in fifteen minutes for a writing class. I thought it was admittedly clever, but terrible as well. When I read it aloud in class my teacher said that he had been brought into the setting. There was a pause after the story ended, the class sat in shock. After a few long seconds they realized the hilariousness of the main character's predicament. Apparently it was good. I thought it sucked after I had read it out loud.
This class period made me realize, once again, that the writer does not think of their own works as amazing. It also forces me to realize that I am not writing for myself, but for my readers. If it moves them in any way, or if they simply enjoy it, I am glad and have accomplished something with my writing. I hope I will never grow so prideful as to discard the reader. This would be the bane of my career, it would be the death of any true writer.