Writerly angst

We as humans are a walking, talking, feeling billboard of oxymoronic behaviour versus emotions etc. How do we know this? Or rather prove it? We all fear criticism, yet yearn it. It’s this primal need to be accepted into the tribe sort to speak. Like a coming of age badge to show our maturity.

As a writer, unfortunately, despite fearing criticism like the Ebola Virus, we have to bravely extend our arms and hand over our dignity, aka, our words, our creations to be examined and commented on. It’s part of the whole deal, part of the job we must do to get to the other end. The hall pass. And it’s something we have to do time and again, through multiple critics at all levels of development. No wonder seldom there are those of us who eventually never make it to the other side of the rainbow because it picks us up and puts us aside, clearing the way for others.

I fear criticism, but most of all, I fear the words that would be devastating to hear in conjunction with what has taken sleepless hours to make. But when you get criticism that you can work with, that shows you it’s own potential, then it’s comments we ought to take. Our creations deserve it.

What of the criticism however that takes nail-biting length of time, or rather because you’re so nervous, time just stretches itself out even more?

I took a review on the chin yesterday because it was a sound argument and allowed me to detach myself from what I had written for a bit. Today however, I’m back to the nervy person who is still waiting to hear back from others. More assessments and observations. It’s all I can do to hold on and not go into a scream fest, squealing both excitedly and nervously, unable to decide which one I should ready myself to face. So I’m doing the only thing I can, writing about it in stead.

Fingers are crossed! By God, are they crossed!

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