top of page

Letting Go of Your Writing

I flunked second grade art class.

Who flunks second grade art class, where high expectations are stick figures and barely recognizable animal shaped blobs? Me, that’s who. Was I a terrible artist? No, I always loved art. My teacher told my mother that I had thrown every assignment in the trash, having determined that none of it was good enough to hand in.

Fast forward thirty years, and there I was reading my story to a room full of people I did not know, for the first time. My hands were ice cold and shaking, my voice trembled, I read too fast, scrambled a few words, and refused to meet anyone’s eye. Within a few heartbeats of the last word, I had already asked myself why I had opened my mouth, what possessed me to join a critique group, and whether my laptop would fit in the trash can.