Sunday morning:
Not long ago, I joined a local writer's association. There's a meeting this afternoon and I dread going. My dread stems from a horror story. I came across a horror magazine accepting submissions for an anthology and I happened to have a story that was the right subject and length that they wanted, but it was over a decade old. I dusted off the story and rewrote several parts, everything was good. Then I submitted it to a few critique partners.
I can't help it. My college career didn't include a major in english or creative writing. There's a part of my brain that expects the worst from critiques, that part that tells me I'm a hack and have no business writing anything. I write science fiction that has so far been well received; is this the story that will expose me for the talentless poseur my brain says I am? Will my critique partners shake their heads in pity, wondering why my meager growth has taken such a giant leap backwards?
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