I arrived late, relieved to see there were fewer present than the week before. My newly put together "writing backpack" that has my journal, my laptop and all things writing. Kind of a writing costume, I guess, for this new part of the journey.
I tried to not show how intimidated I am, how strange it felt to be with others that just want to write and do it well. I thought of my essay, tucked into my bag, wondered when -- of if -- I'd get it out.
After writing exercises, which I finished early, a sure sign that I have no idea what I'm doing, I drew curly-ques in my margins, just so I'd look busy.
Then, time came for reading original work. In a moment of adrenaline rush, I volunteer, mostly just to get it over with.
I heard my voice and heard my words, which is wierd since most of writing is done in the interiors of the crevices of ones head. I felt sweaty, kind of sick, ready to go.
I finished and fidgeted a bit, having more quesiness in my stomach than I ever remembered. But I had done it.
Time for comments from the group. I looked at my feet, breathing heavy.
I remembered a few of their comments - mostly all kind and reassuring. But the real triumph is having the courage to create something and then share it. And have it received.
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