Seven writers of varying proficiencies sat around the table. The room was chilly and the raging snow storm happening outside mirrored the turmoil happening inside my stomach. It was the first day of critiques in my creative nonfiction writing class. This was a new experience for me. My usual routine of posting a blog or submitting a paper to a professor was being turned upside down. I didn't want to know what they thought. I liked my writing and that's what mattered.
The class and professor had been emailed a copy of my paper and were ready to have a discussion about it. I volunteered to go first. My anxiety was taking over and I knew if I waited much longer, a full on panic attack would ensue. The professor had me stand at the front of the room behind the podium and read my paper in its entirety. It's one thing to write a personal and emotion-packed paper, it's another to have other people read it, but it's entirely another thing to stand in front of strangers to read it and have it critiqued.
I took a few deep breathes before starting. It took just a few minutes to read it, but it felt like hours. I reminded myself to enunciate and to speak slowly and intentionally. I finished the last sentence and looked up at my audience for the first time. All wide-eyed and silent, I wondered if I'd done something wrong. Did I misunderstand the assignment? Did I disclose too much?
Vulnerability and trust are not my strong points. There are a few people who have walked through the ups and downs of my life alongside me. Not only the struggles and tears, but the laughter and successes as well. Even still, I initially have a hard time talking about personal things with them. Something inside of me flash freezes the second I begin to unpack my often scrambled thoughts. It takes a few minutes of mindless chatter to thaw me out. It's a daily process of warming up to them and reassuring myself that I can trust them. Once the hovering fear dissipates, it's gone until the next day.
It was time for someone else to be in the spotlight. I was done. Hot tears filled my eyes and I wanted to be out of that situation. Feeling overly exposed and empty, I quickly gathered my papers and slipped back into my seat.
"Thank you, Andrea. How brave of you to put words to that situation and those feelings," the professor said as she rose from her chair and moved to the podium.
I remembered to keep breathing at that point and quietly thanked her. She put a reassuring hand on my shoulder as she explained the value of exploring emotion in writing. Writing about a situation revels many unnoticed details to the writer. Nonfiction writing can be like counseling if done right. A situation is thoroughly processed through and come to terms with. A resolution or settling of emotions is not always brought about, but a greater understanding lends peace and a greater ability to move forward.
"Never again," I thought. Counseling should be between a counselor and a single person, not one person, a fictitious counselor, and a captive audience waiting to critique. It was settled - my next submissions were going to be void of all emotion and feeling.
The professor opened up the discussion to the other students. First came the positive feedback, then the general questions on the topic, and then finally the areas that needed work and clarification.
Word choice, how I handled the topic I wrote about, voice, sentence structure, general flow. Those were all strong points. I had been mortified in the moments prior to this segment of the critique, but the compliments ushered in hope. My writing was not terrible, far from perfect, but not terrible.
Why did I choose the topic I did? It seemed like a good story to tell. And it was, until I had to read it aloud that is. It was a situation that I needed help understanding so I thought I would attempt to do just that. I can't say that endless hours of rehashing details helped, but it thankfully didn't make it worse.
The criticism came next. I considered slipping under the table for this portion. My ears would work just fine from the safety of the floor. Tears filled my eyes again as the professor started talking through her list of concerns. Her words were gentle and constructive; there was nothing harsh about them. This put me at ease. The tone was set for the remainder of the discussion by her example. Questions were asked and a few clarifications were needed. I took notes because these would make my paper better.
Not one negative word was uttered about the topic I wrote on. I was thankful for that. Everything said was constructive and considerate.
The storm raging in my stomach died down. My anxiety melted into excitement. These critiques would make my writing stronger. The occasional negative comment would, in the long run, give me more positive ones. This step was necessary. My writing was being tested and refined. If it could withstand fire, it would be made stronger.
Now I welcome the critiques and criticisms. Maybe not welcome them with enthusiasm, but I don't fear it. I see the reason for it.
I need the idiosyncrasies, irrational fears, and poor decisions pointed out in my life just as much as I need the unclear portions of my writing pointed out. I need the occasional red pen to sweep through, leaving behind the pieces of worth.
The class and professor had been emailed a copy of my paper and were ready to have a discussion about it. I volunteered to go first. My anxiety was taking over and I knew if I waited much longer, a full on panic attack would ensue. The professor had me stand at the front of the room behind the podium and read my paper in its entirety. It's one thing to write a personal and emotion-packed paper, it's another to have other people read it, but it's entirely another thing to stand in front of strangers to read it and have it critiqued.
I took a few deep breathes before starting. It took just a few minutes to read it, but it felt like hours. I reminded myself to enunciate and to speak slowly and intentionally. I finished the last sentence and looked up at my audience for the first time. All wide-eyed and silent, I wondered if I'd done something wrong. Did I misunderstand the assignment? Did I disclose too much?
Vulnerability and trust are not my strong points. There are a few people who have walked through the ups and downs of my life alongside me. Not only the struggles and tears, but the laughter and successes as well. Even still, I initially have a hard time talking about personal things with them. Something inside of me flash freezes the second I begin to unpack my often scrambled thoughts. It takes a few minutes of mindless chatter to thaw me out. It's a daily process of warming up to them and reassuring myself that I can trust them. Once the hovering fear dissipates, it's gone until the next day.
It was time for someone else to be in the spotlight. I was done. Hot tears filled my eyes and I wanted to be out of that situation. Feeling overly exposed and empty, I quickly gathered my papers and slipped back into my seat.
"Thank you, Andrea. How brave of you to put words to that situation and those feelings," the professor said as she rose from her chair and moved to the podium.
I remembered to keep breathing at that point and quietly thanked her. She put a reassuring hand on my shoulder as she explained the value of exploring emotion in writing. Writing about a situation revels many unnoticed details to the writer. Nonfiction writing can be like counseling if done right. A situation is thoroughly processed through and come to terms with. A resolution or settling of emotions is not always brought about, but a greater understanding lends peace and a greater ability to move forward.
"Never again," I thought. Counseling should be between a counselor and a single person, not one person, a fictitious counselor, and a captive audience waiting to critique. It was settled - my next submissions were going to be void of all emotion and feeling.
The professor opened up the discussion to the other students. First came the positive feedback, then the general questions on the topic, and then finally the areas that needed work and clarification.
Word choice, how I handled the topic I wrote about, voice, sentence structure, general flow. Those were all strong points. I had been mortified in the moments prior to this segment of the critique, but the compliments ushered in hope. My writing was not terrible, far from perfect, but not terrible.
Why did I choose the topic I did? It seemed like a good story to tell. And it was, until I had to read it aloud that is. It was a situation that I needed help understanding so I thought I would attempt to do just that. I can't say that endless hours of rehashing details helped, but it thankfully didn't make it worse.
The criticism came next. I considered slipping under the table for this portion. My ears would work just fine from the safety of the floor. Tears filled my eyes again as the professor started talking through her list of concerns. Her words were gentle and constructive; there was nothing harsh about them. This put me at ease. The tone was set for the remainder of the discussion by her example. Questions were asked and a few clarifications were needed. I took notes because these would make my paper better.
Not one negative word was uttered about the topic I wrote on. I was thankful for that. Everything said was constructive and considerate.
The storm raging in my stomach died down. My anxiety melted into excitement. These critiques would make my writing stronger. The occasional negative comment would, in the long run, give me more positive ones. This step was necessary. My writing was being tested and refined. If it could withstand fire, it would be made stronger.
Now I welcome the critiques and criticisms. Maybe not welcome them with enthusiasm, but I don't fear it. I see the reason for it.
I need the idiosyncrasies, irrational fears, and poor decisions pointed out in my life just as much as I need the unclear portions of my writing pointed out. I need the occasional red pen to sweep through, leaving behind the pieces of worth.
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