Vulnerability

At the art retreat in June, I met an editor, who approached me about my writing. She asked me to send her some chapters. I finally did so, and received back some incredibly encouraging commentary. She asked for more. Twice. She's now received nine chapters. The last I sent her was over a week ago, and I have yet to hear back. 

I know people get busy. They get distracted. They have different time tables than I. I am not at all put out by any delay on her part. That would be only too hypocritical of me. No, I'm not annoyed. I'm worried. Because, what if she did read it? What if it's bad, and she just doesn't want to say so? Or maybe it's taking so long because of all the editing and comments necessary. I think I'd rather receive a rejection than wait for one.

Sharing my writing is incredibly vulnerable for me. I don't even share it with all of my friends, let alone strangers. I haven't let my siblings read it or even my husband. I'd rather be seen naked. It's less embarrassing. And I'm far from peak physical attractiveness. 

Part of it is that I feel silly for making up stories. Like I got overheard playing "pretend" as a kid by my older siblings. Like my imagination is something I should have outgrown. 

Additionally, it feels presumptuous to think that I could have anything to offer the literary community, that I should want to count myself among their number. I compare myself to the authors I love, and I fall short, even in my own estimation. 

But most of all, my stories are the innermost workings of my soul. They are what I think about when my mind is free. Words feel inadequate to capture what I see and feel in my head. Yet, I try. I try my best. I work hard to attempt to convey what it is about these characters and places that means so much to me. To have that mocked or rejected would be too deep of a criticism for me to handle. 

I know all I did was send an email. But it feels like an act of bravery.