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?