Sharing

I began writing stories when I was about eleven years old. Being eleven and self-conscious and awkward and just starting adolescence, and writing about romance, of which I knew nothing, I was scared to let anyone read my stories. Terrified is more like it.

That feeling continued on through junior high. I remember going to stay at a friend's house one night in seventh grade, and then realizing I had left my latest notebook wide open on top of my bed. I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to call home and tell my mom and brother not to go in my room and look at it. But I knew that would only draw attention to it. What could I do? It completely ruined my entire night. I was petrified that my little brother was in there reading it and laughing. For all I know, he did go in there and read it that night.

In the summer between eighth and ninth grade, my friend and I made a pact that on June 9 we would both began writing our novels. We both had great ideas. When we came back to school in the fall, we would share them with each other. I took this very seriously. I made outlines for my book, and I made plans, and I practiced that first paragraph, just waiting for the day I could begin. And on June 9, I started my somewhat romantic novel about a woman who travels back through time and falls in love with a cowboy from 1876. Seriously. I was fourteen, give me a break.

His name was Richard, and I am still a little in love with him.

When I saw that friend again at a swimming pool that summer, I asked if she had started her book. She kind of laughed and blew it off. She had forgotten. I was surprised and disappointed. She did start eventually, and when school started, we shared our books with each other. It was different when I knew I was writing for an audience. She really enjoyed it, and I remember that hers was really good. She was a different writer than I was. She actually was planning being a journalist, and she loved the idea of going out and getting a story. I wrinkled my nose at that. I actually enjoyed being cooped up in my bedroom for hour after hour being totally absorbed in my own little world.

I discovered something really, really important while we shared our work. Something that I still try to remember every day. There was a part of my book that I was a bit nervous about writing because I knew she would be reading it. But then I forgot about her. I dug deep inside myself and poured my heart into this scene, exactly the way I wanted to. What happened was that she loved it. She said it was some of the best writing she had ever read. She was fourteen, too. Give her a break.

I found it to be true whatever I wrote after that. When I dig into my deepest, most private self and use that as fuel to be creative, that's when the writing is well-received. That's when I write my best. I have to remember that, because right now I have an audience of three different people reading my book as I write it. I never planned for this, it just happened. These people are friends, and they are all three avid readers. They are not writers or critics or professionals.

I have become a lot less paranoid about sharing my work, obviously. I write for a newspaper that is published and distributed to thousands of homes every week. I am blogging this on the freaking internet for god's sake. I am older, wiser, and a lot more confident than I was at fourteen, or even at 30.

But still it can be so hard...

The people reading my words say they love it. They beg for more chapters. They are dying to know what happens next. I still feel doubts. Part of me thinks it's just crap and they are being nice. This is the evil monster in me I am trying to push away. Having people read allows me to ask them for advice when I get in a sticky spot. It gives me an incentive to keep writing, as they keep asking for more. Maybe this time it won't die.

Off to write...Chapter 7 awaits me.