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Garbage

09 May

I smooth my turtleneck and clear my throat.  I thumb the paperclip in my pocket with my left hand as I start to read.  The words in my shiny draft suddenly seem ill-chosen; the plot, silly.  I stumble over sentences that don’t flow.  Is this the same story I couldn’t wait to share with my writer’s group?

I rush through to the end. I wait a few agonizing moments. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.  Surely they’ll tell me its garbage. I shouldn’t be a writer. I should give up.

What happens when you ask for critique?

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Posted by on May 9, 2011 in Revising

 

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