Creative Writing Workshop
I like it when people compliment my work when in a group. That reduces my baseline anxiety and eases my worry. I stop picking at my scalp. What are those hard parts anyway? They're fun to peel away. The judgment may be harsh, but with one compliment my presence no longer needs to be justified. Since I am capable, I fit in. Someday I may excel.
My turn is coming. The mob readies its fangs, ready to vent the rage of years of social slights and disappointing sexual experiences. I know what it is to show work, to show filet of soul (that's terrible) and have others wonder what else I do when I'm alone. I know what it is to hope that they won't kick me in my vulnerable spots again and again, relishing my gasps and grunts, but still be honest enough to prepare me for someone who will.
In writing, criticism wounds me. Even faint praise depresses me. I'm addicted to the endorphin buzz, high, hugging the Downy scented adulation. I've developed a tolerance for it. I must have more. I'm a perfectionist. Sell me more.
It's my turn.
Labels: from the notebooks