Resistance, part 945 out of infinite

The writing workshop started at 6:30; at 5:45 I started printing out a second copy of my essay to bring along. At 6:00 I got a headache; at 6:15, when it was still printing out, I felt so nauseous I sat with my head in hands, and thought about throwing up.

That is what resistance looks like. I'm lucky to have recognized it; otherwise, I might have thought I was actually sick and stayed home. Yes it is probably more extreme than what most people deal with. I sat at my computer with a pounding head after taking two tylenol 1s and fought the urge to run to the bathroom and hover over a toilet because I was so terrified of exposing myself as a writer. I'm a freak. Remember?

I went. The essay did not finish printing out until 6:22, so I was a few minutes late; but it turned out not to be a problem. I took a seat and listened to the author talk about his history as a blue-collar labourer shovelling frozen shit out from under trailers in a trailer park, and discuss beginning and ending poems and stories effectively.

Three of us brought work, out of a class of about fifteen people.

For the first hour and a half, I kept thinking, "Oh god, am I going to read? Should I read? I don't have to. Maybe I won't. Oh, god." I shook the entire time. Literally shook. My heart hammered in my chest.

Halfway through the first girl's reading (and she was a girl; I think not older than 22), I began to think, "Oh no! I hope there's time for me. I hope I can read." More shaking and hammering.

Then I did. I didn't get to read the whole thing because we were running out of time, but I read the first few pages of my essay. And--more shaking. My hands trembled, holding the pages. My voice was barely controlled. I thought for sure they could all see how terrified I was, how absolutely terrified.

But they liked it.

Now, I think by and large offering commentary such as, "this sucked" is not something they are likely to do (though I fear it). But the first piece received a much more tepid reaction--a sort of questioning of the intended audience and the purpose of writing the piece, and some remarks on its intensity. So, going by the admittedly undersized sample, I think I got a better reaction. They said they wanted to hear how it ended. They said that it was like I was building a wall with short, declarative sentences, each one a brick that fit together to make this wall. That it was descriptive and the intensity really kicked in when I mentioned her eyes--and here, dear readers, I am shaking again while I type this. The only feedback I got in terms of improvement was that the author thought I might better start it with the doctor's appointment and the comment on her eyes being too big. (And if you've read it and have any feelings on that yourself, I'd love to hear it.)

After the session ended, I made my way to the table to pick up a book to buy--I like to support other authors, and spending $10 on a book of poetry in National Poetry Month seemed like a harmless way to do it. It took me fifteen minutes to reach the table because people kept stopping me to tell me how much they liked it. Oh, it felt so good. They said that my writing was clear and elegant and descriptive and they wished I could have read through to the end. Clear and elegant and descriptive! They asked me to come again. They're strangers, they don't know me; besides being nice people, they have no reason to lie. I mean, I can understand some polite chitchat like "that was nice," but would you say it was clear and descriptive and elegant if you didn't actually mean it? It's kind of specific to be a polite white lie, isn't it?

Then I went and spent the Chapters book money I got from my SIL and BIL and bought some books to celebrate.

And I am still shaking. I don't know how long it will take for me to fall asleep tonight.

They said I write very well.

Now I am determined to finish it off--after a two-week fermentation period--and try to get it published.

Posted by Andrea at March 30, 2006 7:44 AM under Wordsmithery

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