By Melanie Bates, Owning Pink
Iím sitting outside of my creative writing professorís office. Waiting. Iíve been here every Wednesday for the past eight weeks during his office hours. Waiting. You see, last semester, for the first time in 11 years, I shared a portion of my novel with another living being.
Let me tell you, that wasn’t easy.
I havenít shared my novel with a.n.y.o.n.e. Period. Ever. But with the coaxing of some very dear friends I found my courage (buried somewhere in the trash bin of my mind under some broken eggshells and a couple used ketchup packets) and just did it.
This professor was supposed to read 60 pages of my novel and offer feedback and a critique. As he had hundreds of other ďshitty first draftsĒ to sift through, he said I could pick up my critique on the first day of Spring semester. Iím still waiting.
My inner critic (you remember him right? The cross between Roger Ebert while reviewing the new Dukes of Hazzard movie and Simon Cowell listening to me sing ďSurry with a Fringe on TopĒ) has been having yet another field day.
I donít know what you were thinking handing off that drivel to a published author. I know exactly what happened. He was eating a bowl of Hormel chili while he was reading it and around about page 2 he was so disgusted by your writing that he started puking all over your pages. Of course he canít give them back to you now, what with†half-chewed kidney beans and tomato juice all over them. And… do you think he wants to talk to you about how bad it is? After that trauma? Heíd probably start dry-heaving just from the memory of reading it. Let it go.