All my friends are writing books.
This is probably because all my friends are writers.
That being said, I am growing more nervous. I imagine this is what the flat-chested girl must feel like at strip poker night. (not that I’ve ever been flat chested. Or played strip poker, mom.) we are at the stage where more of these friends have drafts to read. And are asking others to read those drafts.
I’ve got some good drafts of some good sections of some good books. I think. But the more I look at them the more I’m convinced they’re the writerly version of bra stuffing. I know that if I were to ask anyone to read them the reaction would be something
along the lines of “you’re kidding?! All these years youve told us you’re a writer. And this is what you’ve got? Ive read more riveting shampoo instructions!!!
A few years ago I posted a paragraph–one paragraph–of something I wrote as an example of contextual dialogue. The kindest reactions I got were people who didn’t say anything at all. One person I’d never ever seen comment here before reamed me for all sorts of things you ream people for in a writing workshop. You know…the criticism people drag out to enforce their image of superiority.
I really and truly deeply want to read my friends’ drafts. And part of me wants to have people read at least a piece of my fiction. But the larger part of me thinks maybe I’m not a writer at all and its best if I keep my private insanity ,well, private.