So it’s been like ten years since I’ve let anyone read any fiction I write. Personal essays, yes. Literature analyses, yes. Creative writing stays hidden and password protected on my computer.
This semester, though, I’m taking a writing for young readers class. Workshopping is required, meaning I have to read what I wrote aloud and then call on people so they can critique my work. Ack!
In class today, while we were discussing the Hunger Games, I was sweating. I knew it was coming. Today was my day. And then the first person read their work. And then I read mine.
And people actually liked it! And I felt like it was in a genuine “this is actually kind of intriguing” kind of way, not a “this is cute, you should get a day job” kind of way.
Not that I’m planning on making a living from writing, but hooray for conquering fears!