So, it turns out that to be a writer, you have to share your
work with others. A lot. Workshopping groups, professors, friends, family.
Sharing your work becomes an important component of the writing process.
And, I’m elated to do so. That is up until the actual moment
I share it. I love the idea of sharing my work, being vulnerable to another,
and hearing what they have to say. Honestly, though, handing (or emailing)
something that I’ve spent hours on terrifies me. My stomach drops. My heart
pounds. And, I think to myself, Am I a
narcissistic fool? Did I just really send that dribble to my [insert important
person] thinking they would care? I don’t even know if I’m a good writer! Hell,
I don’t even know if I’m a writer!
Thankfully, I tend to send or hand my work off before I’ve
given my insecurities too much thought. The moments of dread and horror come immediately
after the work has left my totalizing grasp. Will my jokes make sense? Do I sound
self-pitying? Is there truth in what I wrote?
There’s really no way to know. I sit in my little room with
my lovely dog, feeling insecure and exposed, hoping to God that at the very
least no one will hate me after reading my work and that maybe someone
somewhere will get at least one joke. Much to my surprise, though, the feedback
on my creative work from both peers and professors has been incredibly
positive. In fact, one professor looked at me and simply said, “Sierra, you are
a writer.”
Perhaps then it is time to shake off my insecurity (or at
least keep it at bay long enough to actually share my work) and see what it is
I can do with this thing, this dogged desire to write.
