I love to write, and I love to share my writing with folks I think will like it.  And I usually ask them what they think of a particular piece, but here’s the rub: I don’t really, REALLY like to be criticized.

I just admitted this to myself.

A good writer has to be open to criticism, I think, particularly if they are asking for it, as I do.  But it’s just so defeating to give someone a writing sample, and to get back from them, “Huh.  I don’t get it.  Maybe you should develop this a little more.”  Or even worse: “Hmm.  Where are you going with this?  Do you even know?”  I think I dislike this question, because the truth is, I probably don’t know where it’s going.  I may not really know what it is I’m trying to say…I just want the reader to go, “Wow, I really like that character.  She is real.”

When I recieve criticism, I’m thinking “Oh, you mean you wanted a plot?  I don’t know if I can deliver.  But look at this great line, and look how I described the tension in the room.  Isn’t that good?  Doesn’t that suffice?”  Apparently not.
Recently, my writing group gave me some very good feedback regarding a short story I wrote.  I knew (and know still) that it was great feedback, and that I was lucky to have it.  But on some level, I felt utterly depressed afterward, because I realized that often my writing is for me alone and isn’t in any kind of shape to be shared.  It took me a couple of weeks to look at the piece again, to think about the comments I’d received in regard to it, to decide which of the suggestions I’d take, which I’d discard.  And it took me a while to understand that sometimes writing is good just for writing’s sake: the more you write, the better you write.  Not every single sentence must be a candidate for the Pushcart Prize or some other literary award.

New Year’s Resolution #1: Stop taking it all so seriously.

I think that writing is like falling in love…you start, a little tentatively, and you have such high hopes and a well of enthusiasm. You only show your best self–no walking around with an oatmeal mask on your face.

For me, starting a piece means staying up, excited…thinking about what I want to convey, the characters, what they look like, how they talk, where and when the story is unfolding. I sneak into the computer room at odd hours to jot down a paragraph; I remind myself of someone illicitly phoning a lover. I catch myself daydreaming about my story. I’m like a fool in love.

And then. Reality. The rose colored glasses are ripped off, the birds stop singing…I see the underbelly of my love for writing.

Writer’s block, skewed plot lines, grammar, tenses, inconsistencies, and zzzzzzzz…boredom…it all begins. I start in like a wronged girlfriend, “but you used to be so exciting. You used to be fun and refreshing. What happened to you?! Was it all a facade?”

The honeymoon isn’t over, but sometimes I feel like my writing’s started wearing the dreaded oatmeal mask.

I finally finished writing something.  I’m so proud.  I think the last piece of fiction writing I had actually finished was somewhere around five years ago (save for posts on this blog, but they don’t count, do they?).

So I wrote a short story, a little over 2,300 words, and right now I’m flush with excitement that it has a beginning, a middle…a conclusion.  Ahhhhhh.  There’s just nothing to describe the sense of accomplishment that comes when you type those two little words:  “The End.”

Now I will keep on with the Novel, the MANUSCRIPT…the thorn in my side.  Wish me luck…maybe I’ll be able to find my way to the end there, too.  Not any time soon, mind you. 

But someday.

I’ve joined a writing group.  Six aspiring writers meet every two weeks to read aloud their work and critique one another’s work.  Very fulfilling and nerve-wracking, both.  I found my voice shaking a bit as I read aloud to the group.  They were so kind afterwards, proverbially gentle.  I went away inspired, challenged, ready to take on more. I think I’ve found my groove thing.