Oh. I forgot the whole point of this morning’s post, well, the reason I started writing it anyway. I meant to talk about how completely, unabashedly insecure I’ve become with my writing. I have no idea how it can be that I’ve gotten more experience, and am a better writer for it, I hope, and good and encouraging things have happened, and yet I am still a jittery, insecure mess whenever it comes time for someone to read what I wrote.

It makes no sense. I don’t remember being this insecure about people reading my work in grad school, and maybe I should have been back then.

You should have seen me before the workshop at Tin House. I was massively nervous about how people would react to my story—visuals of being slammed plagued me—and then the workshop happened, and I sat there taking notes, and most of it was good. Really good. People liked it, like really liked it. What did I think would happen, they’d run me out of the room with sharpened pencils, smacking at me with scribbled-over copies of my story?

My workshop leader, in my conference, said she hoped I saw how much the class responded to my story and how they connected to my main character. It was good she reiterated it because there was a point at which I didn’t, couldn’t see. I see the confidence in some writers and I am begging for it. How do you feel so sure of yourself? I used to be sure, but I think past rejections have stomped me down. It’s really hard to write your best when you have a massive loss of confidence.

There. That’s what I meant to say earlier.